Explanation: This fanfic follows the events of an ASOIAF role play still in progress at r/GameofThronesRP/
CHAPTER THREE
- DAMON -
The sound of countless beating drums rolled over the massive army like a thunderclap, and the torches burned brightly in the night. Thirty thousand Lannister troops clad head to toe in hard steel waited outside the Lion's Gate as the men from the Bright Banners pulled the heavy winch and raised the creaking iron portcullis slowly.
They formed a sea of silver beyond the walls of the city, standing with anxious anticipation, grasping their weapons, awaiting their final command from Damon Lannister atop his great white destrier. This is what they tell me I was born for, he thought to himself, looking out over the ocean of his father's men. I hope they're right.
The winter night was black and the crimson and gold of his ornate armor glittered in what little light shone out from the torches illuminating the gate, the lions on the gardbraces snarling menacingly. A long cloak of red hung down from his shoulders, fastened to the pauldron with silver clasps. Gold were the embellishments on his scabbard, gold was the lion on his sigil, and gold was his hair as he faced the men with his helm tucked under one arm, his other hand clutching his blade unsheathed.
"THIS IS THE LION'S GATE!" he shouted, his voice booming, "AND YOU... ARE LIONS!"
A roar rose up from the thirty thousand as the men shouted and smashed their swords and shields together in reply. Their commander gazed out confidently over the mass of soldiers, their torches forming constellations in a sky made of thousands of metal men.
Damon pointed his sword towards the open gate. "TAKE... YOUR... CITY!"
The men rushed into King's Landing, knights thundering on horseback and a seemingly infinite wave of foot soldiers charging behind them. The army washed over the city like a tidal wave and Damon rode at the head of it. They flooded the narrow and winding streets. Gold Cloaks fell to the sword as they stood wielding their naked steel in defense of the capital. Lambs for the slaughter.
The Lannister host rode right over them, splitting and dividing to conquer each winding street, burning, looting, and slaughtering anything in their paths. The alleyways were jammed with soldiers in red cloaks and gold ones, the air was filled with the shrieks and wails of dying men, and the streets ran red with blood.
Damon had abandoned his mount when the streets grew too narrow and the crowds too thick, but soon he found himself leading a battalion men into a wide open space. From the white marble plaza below the Great Sept of Baelor, he saw the Red Keep looming in the distance, dark and menacing. Its tall towers of rose colored stone were illuminated by the torches within and yellow banners with black stags hung from the ramparts.
Behind him was the alchemist's guild, its doors shut and boarded. Less prepared were the homes and shops nearby, where Damon had seen men and women pulled into the streets by their hair, screaming and sobbing. He had no time to dwell on the brutality taking place around him, for ahead in the square waited Joseph Baratheon and half a thousand soldiers in cloaks of gold.
Damon would have felt hesitation if it weren't for the adrenaline coursing through him. The King's brother was a beast of a man, six feet six inches of muscle, decked in darkened steel armor. His two handed greatsword Antler glistened as he held it unsheathed at his side, sharper than a butcher's blade.
Damon's own sword was already slick with blood, and the men he lead halted behind him as he stood facing off against the Baratheon, the castle rising up behind the Stag in the background.
"Have you come for our city, Lannister!?" Joseph bellowed out. His deep voice was even bigger than he was. carrying across the courtyard and trumping the noise of the sack around them.
"Joseph Baratheon, surrender now!" Damon shouted back. "Your men are outnumbered, it will be slaughter!"
Behind him the Lannister soldiers waited impatiently, and further behind them the city was burning. The army had flooded River Row, Cobblers' and Fishmonger's Squares, the Street of Steel and the Muddy Way. Damon had no intent to join them. His goal lie before him, atop Aegon's Hill. The only thing standing in his way now was the Lord of Storm's End.
"Not a fucking chance!" Joseph thundered. He raised Antler high above his head and wheeled around to face the gold cloaks. "Are you ready to die, men?!" he boomed. The soldiers of the City Watch trumpeted their answer with shouts and raised fists.
"We die for honor!" he told them. "We die for glory! We die for the realm!" The men lifted their swords and bawled their resistance. "And let's take some fucking lions with us!"
He turned to Damon Lannister and the thousands of soldiers at his back and charged, roaring as he closed the distance between them. Behind him followed the Gold Cloaks and the two armies met in a clash of steel and flesh, spilling blood onto the pristine marble of the Great Sept's plaza.
Joseph's soldiers threw themselves bravely against the invading army, but the Baratheon had eyes for only one man. He raised Antler high as he charged at the Lannister heir, then brought the blade down towards Damon's waist, as if he aimed to slice him in half.
Blade collided with shield with a ringing thwang! Damon braced himself against the stone plaza, barely maintaining his balance. His arm, already sore from the carrying weight of the shield, ached from the force of the blow.
Like fighting a bloody giant, he realized, and the hesitation began to creep in, cutting through the initial exhilaration. The Baratheon's strength was as astounding as it was reputed to be. The Lord of Storm's End was larger than the Lannister, and stronger still. But I'm faster.
Damon met the Baratheon's second swing with his sword and their blades connected. The sound of steel ringing against steel filled the air, mingling with the cries of battle from the rest of their men as their forces smashed into each other. At every place the Baratheon swung his sword met with Damon's - the waist, the helm, the gaps in the armor, the joint under the arm…
"Quick little bastard!"Joseph yelled, grinning with a mad glint in his azure eyes. The Stag took a step backwards and then lunged forward with a grunt, bringing his greatsword down with full force. The sword connected with the stone of the plaza and he didn't see where his foe had gone until he felt cold steel against the back of his leg and a rush of warm blood.
"Over here, you fat oaf."
Joseph whirled around to find his nimble opponent and roared his frustration. This time when he launched his flurry of attacks it was with a burning fury. After a few parries, Joseph raised Antler over his head and sent it crashing down towards the Lannister's head. The strength of the blow would have caved in his helm, but Damon met it with his shield.
He heard the sickening sound of cracking bone before he felt the arm break, but the pain followed shortly, and with a vengeance. The young Lannister stripped his ruined shield hurriedly and raised his sword defensively.
The Baratheon took another looping swing, but Damon vanished again. Another gash with more blood running down his calf made him realize that the Lannister had sliced open the back of his other leg. The massive Stag fell to his knees. He swung his blade at the his foe's neck but Damon ducked, and thrust his sword through the exposed part of his enemy's armor, driving the steel into the gap beneath his arm.
"Give up, Lord Baratheon!" Damon shouted as he tore his blade from Joseph's flesh and took several staggering steps backwards, his breathing labored, his left arm hanging awkward and useless at his side. He ignored the throbbing pain in his body and stared down at the King's brother kneeling in the plaza before him, blood oozing out over the man's armor and staining the yellow tunic atop his breastplate.
Damon lifted his bloody sword and pointed it at the stormlord's neck.
"Surrender now," he said, panting, "Or I will take your head from your shoulders!"
Joseph let out a chuckle. He could feel the warm blood dripping from his arm and running down his legs. "A Baratheon doesn't fucking surrender."
In a final surge of defiance, he mustered his strength and lunged, thrusting his sword at Damon. The Lannister was too quick. He sidestepped the assault and swung his own sword hard at the Stag's throat. The blade cleaved through the flesh with a spray of blood and came to a halt halfway through. Damon yanked the sword free and swung again, finishing the job.
He stumbled backwards, clutching his broken arm, as the head of the King's brother rolled on the ground in front of him. "I need a sharper sword," he said aloud to no one. He glanced about the plaza as the Lannister men annihilated the Gold Cloaks. The guards were ill armored and they were no knights, while the Lannister host was suited for war.
Damon had been right.
It was a slaughter.
By the time he reached the stairs of the Red Keep, two thousand men of the City Watch laid dead in the streets of King's Landing. The sounds of screaming and fighting grew distant as Damon ascended the steps to the castle's gate with a small company of soldiers.
Varyo Velaryon was there waiting, the small man from Driftmark framed in the red stone archway, his mismatched eyes watching them make the climb nervously.
Damon stopped before the Spymaster of the Golden Company when he reached the landing, cradling his broken arm, and his men halted some distance behind him. The breeze mussed Varyo's silver hair and carried a stench of blood and death so thick it turned Damon's stomach.
"The city is yours," he told Varyo grimly. "Long live Aerion Blackfyre, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
"Yes," Varyo mumbled, nodding. "The city is fallen... yes."
He turned suddenly to the attendants behind him, possessed of a manic energy, and began barking orders to his men.
"Clear the tower of the hand! Get me some wine, and prepare a letter to Loren Lannister!" He turned and made his way back towards the Red Keep. "And find the Targaryen boy! I want Loren Lannister's badge of office torn off his flesh!"
- SARELLA -
Beneath the dome of gold and glass of the Tower of the Sun was the throne room from which Dorne was ruled, a large round chamber with thick windows of many colored glass. The floors were pale marble, beneath the soft sunlight that filtered in through the rotunda were two ancient seats on a dais, near twins to one another, the only difference being that one was inlaid with the Martell spear on its back and the other featured the blazing Rhoynish sun that flew from the masts of Nymeria's ships.
The spear seat was used by a ruling prince. Sarella Martell sat anxiously in the second chair.
It is not mine yet, she knew. Not while my father still lives.
As to how much longer he would, that was a matter of great debate. Maester Joss had been at the Prince's bedside since he first took ill upon their return from the capital, and it was Lord Fowler who brought Sarella news of his father's condition.
"You will need to start making decisions," he had told her. Manfrey was a tall man, thin as a reed with just whips of long black hair remaining on his head. He had been her father's advisor and steward for as long as Sarella had been alive.
"We have letters," he explained. "Lions, Roses, Stags, and Towers. War horns are being blown, Lady Martell. We cannot continue to ignore them."
So she didn't. At the counsel of Lord Manfrey, along with the bastard advisor Anders and the beautiful, lithe and long legged Ellaria Uller, the Prince's Pass was closed. The nobles of the ruling houses of Dorne were summoned to Sunspear, and now they filled the Tower of the Sun noisily, arguing amongst themselves and shooting the occasional glance towards Sarella and the empty spear seat.
The room was a sea of color. Sun kissed men and women garbed in purple, red, yellow, white, blue, and magenta were raising excessively bangled wrists and pointing fingers angrily at one another. Sarella gave a quiet nod to Aerio Allyrion, the bronze and broad shouldered captain of the Martell guard, who brought them to silence only by slamming the butt of his spear onto the stone floor over and over again.
Sarella stood to address them, feeling like a small child as she looked out at the faces of people twice her age. Older than her by decades, but sworn to her father. Sworn to me, as well.
"Fellow Dornishmen," she began. She was grateful that her voice did not betray the anxiousness or worry she secretly felt. "The houses of Westeros are preparing for war. House Martell has been asked to declare our allegiances. We can remain silent no longer."
She took a moment to glance around the room at the solemn faces before her. Dornish from Yronwood, from Godsgrace, from Ghost Hill, from Skyreach, from Sandstone, from all corners of the southernmost kingdom. She recognized Daynes, Yronwoods, Blackmonts, Santagars, men and women both.
"Ravens tell of a returned Blackfyre, a bastard house of our ancient allies, the Targaryens. Lions roam the Gold Road in the name of this black dragon. They seek to make him King."
A few people murmured in the audience. Though many had already heard these rumors, some were doing so for the first time.
"Meanwhile the King, once husband to our Princess Gianna, seeks to crown a rose as his queen."
At that remark, an angry muttering broke out amongst the crowd of nobles. Sarella allowed the rabble to continue for a few moments before raising her hand for silence again. The soldiers that stood like columns around the room slammed the butts of their spears against the marble floors to assist in her call for order.
"Fellow Dornishmen," she said again. "Sunspear will remain silent on this matter no longer. House Martell will make a decision. Dorne will make a decision. We must choose between ancient alliances and newer ones, and I will hear your counsel."
The Tower of the Sun was at once alive and echoing with the sound of hundreds of voices. Sarella's heart was heavy as she remembered the words of the Sword of the Morning. "Don't try to play the game, fair Princess."
She watched as the men and women erupted into argument and the guards once again began to pound the floors with their spears.
I have to, Ulrich. I have to.
- VARYO -
The throne room was crowded now, and Lannister guards ringed the hall. Torches burned brightly in their sconces, casting eerie shadows over the stone floors and shrouding the frightened faces of the noble men and women who been herded into the great chamber like cattle.
Some of the women were whimpering, and children clung to their skirts. The men attempted to put on brave faces, but the trepidation in their eyes betrayed their true feelings. They stood as hostages to the man on the Iron Throne, and he was a stranger to them.
It's still too quiet, Varyo thought as he looked around at the fearful crowd. I can still hear the sack. His eyes followed the men who were tearing down the stag banners from the balcony rail and the walls.
Aerion sat resplendent on the seat of swords as he addressed his captive audience, although his black robe was dusty from travel. His grin remained, as wicked as ever, and there was a glint in his dark eyes that made him appear even more menacing than usual.
His crown fits worse than a whore's clothes.
Aerion called out great phrases of fire and blood, but no amount of triumphal speeches could disguise the lack of spirit in the room, and would not turn the dour faces of the Lannister men to cheer.
He doesn't sit like a king, Varyo reflected. He doesn't sit the chair with any ease or grace. The chair is judging him, and it calls him usurper.
"I hereby declare Lord Loren Lannister the Hand of the King!" Aerion was speaking in his booming and authoritative voice. "To serve as my highest advisor in addition to his role as Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport."
Varyo was hardly paying attention. His hand gripped his spear tightly. Damon was not yet present, and the maesters were still fussing over his arm.
Maybe we shall have to speed ahead with our plot.
"Lord Orys Connington shall hold the Lord Paramountcy of the Stormlands," Aerion went on. "and he will rule over them from Storm's End!"
Seven hells, on with it! Varyo thought. He was tired of listening to the sellsword King's throaty voice and dramatic words. The highborn in the room stood enraptured and afraid, but the Lannister soldiers seemed to share in the spymaster's apathy. They were trapped in the Keep listening to this stranger's orders while their brothers in arms were running wild in the streets of King's Landing, sacking, burning, and raping.
"... and I appoint Ser Ulrich Dayne as the Lord Commander of my Kingsguard!" Aerion finished at last.
At that a hushed whisper went around the room.
Who? Varyo thought, shocked. He appoints who? How dare he! Who does he think rules here?!
"Your Grace," Varyo approached the throne, stepping onto the dais and gazing up at the King, confusion and displeasure etched into the sharp features of his face. "You cannot seriously mean this?"
"You forget yourself, Lord Varyo," Aerion replied smugly. "I rule in King's Landing now. You are no longer needed, and you would do well to remember that the Dragon bows to no one."
"A false dragon - something you would do well to remember," Varyo spat back.
How dare he! He must have been the informer on Bloodstone, yes! That is it, he betrayed us to the Sword of the Morning! He killed Rhaevo!
"Take the Velaryon to a black cell!" the false Blackfyre ordered, pointing down at the spymaster who was marching up towards him. "I shall have his head!"
Two guards stepped onto the dais behind him at once, hands on their swords. Varyo spun to face them and lowered his spear. The two red-cloaked soldiers hesitated.
To hell with this, let's make an end to this mummer's farce, Varyo thought bitterly.
He wheeled back around and charged up the stairs, throwing himself at the Blackfyre. His spear smashed straight through the elegant robes that had been so hastily fashioned for their false king.
Aerion gave a cry, and he looked down at the wooden shaft protruding from his gut and then back up at the spymaster in shock.
"Go die, and see to it that Rhaevo follows you through all seven hells!" Varyo hissed.
The throne room burst into cacophony; people shouted various commands and curses. Two Lannister men ascended the stairs, their weapons now drawn.
"The King is dead!" Varyo shouted over the uproar. "Long live Aeslyn, the first of her name, of the Houses Targaryen and Lannister! Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men! And long-"
He never got to finish it; the two red cloaked guards grabbed him forcefully and yanked him down the steps.
"Take him to the dungeons," one them growled. "Throw him in a cell. Let the lordling cope with this."
I have avenged you, Rhaevo, Varyo thought as he was dragged roughly from the room. I have to tell Loren…
- JAMES -
With war, there always came refugees. This was something no highborn man or woman truly appreciated, something no general factored into his plans when invading one of the Seven Kingdoms. This was something only the lowborn and the bastards understood.
James Rivers must have stood at the harbors of Braavos all day, watching ships come in with hundreds of displaced men and women on board. Most of them spoke with the accents of Westeros. My own accent, James thought as he watched the weary travelers, My own birthplace.
In the free cities, whispers traveled faster than ravens ever could. A Blackfyre had laid claim to the Iron Throne and was taking it with fire and blood, much like their Targaryen half-siblings had done, but on the back of a Lion instead of a dragon. Westeros was tearing itself apart, just as it had done countless times before.
James watched as people crowded the harbor. His mind turned to Danae and the rest of their company. Had they left Sharp Point only a month later... he shoved the thought away, and watched another ship unload its refugees.
A babe's wail reached his ears as a mother dragged her brood of children through the docks. The father walked closely behind pulling one small piece of luggage that likely held all the belongings for the family of six. James gave a small prayer for their safety, but knew the likelihood of thievery by Braavosi or the other refugees in the harbor would deprive them of the few precious belongings they had left.
As refugees with war, with large crowds always came trouble and all of these people looked starved, half of them looked like corpses, and some even looked diseased. Eventually, the blue-bearded Sealord himself might have to make an appearance to quell the vast number of people suddenly begging asylum in his city.
James and Summer had spent the last several days seeking out their friends and former masters. They departed from the Inn of the Green Eel every morning before the sun rose and arrived late at night after the others had already retired to their rooms. Danae had been instructed by Orin to remain at the inn during the day so that the two could discuss plans for Valyria, and ensure that the small dragon remained hidden in the Targaryen's room.
So far, the Grand Maester's coin had paid for their passage and board, but James wondered when his pockets would empty. How does the maester have the gold to afford this journey? The man surrendered his claim to the wealth of his family when he donned his chain.
James thought of Danae and her willingness to follow this stranger into a smoking ruin that would surely end in disaster. He had been wanting to speak with her about abandoning Orin in Braavos and seeking out her family ties in the city instead, but every time he saw her the Grand Maester was at her side, whispering secrets into her ear and laughing over some joke that James was not privy to.
I'm sure she grows bored, locked in that inn alone with only her dragon and a grey-bearded, stooped Baratheon, but she cannot risk being seen in the city. An alluring young woman trying to keep secrets would not do well in a crowd of curious Braavosi.
The city was fast-paced and chaotic place. Braavosi of all ages ran between markets, selling everything they could get their hands on and it seemed that fish, ale, and pleasure in particular were available in abundance. He left the loud, bustling Ragman's harbor and wandered the streets, examining the strangely beautiful city he once called home in order to seek out an old sparring partner named Mero. A typical gossiping Braavosi, Mero always had news from around the world ready to share with anyone who would buy him a mug of ale or a girl.
James stopped for food at an inn and paused to stick his head inside each brothel he passed. He walked by an old brothel called the Cattery and peeked inside. Temptation called to him as women from all corners of the world waved and winked. James stood in the threshold of the entrance torn between duty and the promise of pleasure.
Just as he was about to enter, he glanced back to the streets to see a suspicious wisp of silver-blonde hair escape from a ragged brown cloak wrapped tightly around a small figure. The shadow was walking briskly in the direction of Ragman's harbor. He turned his back on the brothel and ducked behind a wall to follow Danae.
What in the Seven Hells is she doing outside?
He padded along behind her, silent as a cat, as she wove her way down hidden alleys and winding lanes. She hesitated at a fork in the road, and then turned right. She's lost, he thought, but where is she trying to go?
Before he had time to think of an answer, a drunken Braavosi stumbled out from a brothel, forcing Danae to halt. He looked as though he were about to retch, when he suddenly took note of the hooded woman, and then took a few unsteady steps towards her.
"You there! You workin' here?" He spoke to her in thick Braavosi, a language James knew well but that was as foreign to Danae as the Old Tongue. "I swear you'd make me a lot of money... Those purple eyes...Let me see your hair, girl. I might even be able to sell you as part dragonseed..." He reached a grubby hand towards Danae and yanked at her cloak.
James saw her tear away from the man and hurry off in a panic while the fat Braavosi tilted his head back and roared with coarse, drunken laughter. James sprinted after her. As he passed the brothel, he stopped briefly to connect his fist with the drunken man's nose. After the stranger fell onto his back, bleeding and cursing, James bolted after Danae.
When he caught her, he grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around to face him.
"James!" She spoke breathlessly. Her pale cheeks were flushed pink and her lilac eyes were wide. A hesitant smile spread across her comely face and she attempted to hide her distress, but James could read her body language like a book. Tendrils of hair fell from her loose hood and she brushed them aside. "So good to see you! How has your time been with your master?"
"Danae, you know you aren't supposed to leave the inn." His right hand tightened anxiously around her small upper arm as he looked away from her to search the busy streets around them. "Where's the maester? He's been latched onto you since we arrived."
She only frowned up at him. "I grew restless, and Orin left the inn for just a moment to make a purchase. I know I can't leave Persion alone, so I stood outside the inn in disguise and slipped away when I saw Summer returning. Orin spends his days telling me of Valyria and magic and dragons, but I hear no news from Westeros. How can I plan to take King's Landing on my return if no one will tell me anything that is happening there?"
She knows nothing of the war…
"Danae," James sighed as he gazed down at her. "I think we should return to the Green Eel. We have much to discuss." He gently released her and they trudged back through the crowds streets to the inn in silence.
The Grand Maester was sitting at a small table with Summer when they entered. The old man's usually calm face was contorted in anger and his blue eyes bore into them like siege weapons as they slipped into a booth away from them.
"Danae," James spoke at last. "A Blackfyre has laid claim to the Iron Throne with the aid and armies of the Lannisters, and as far as I'm aware, he's taken it. The refugees in the harbor are mostly from the Riverlands. Randyll Frey declared himself the new Lord Paramount and is marching across the kingdom to take Harrenhal from Lord Baelish. The Conningtons are taking the Stormlands. From what I gather, the seven kingdoms are at war."
Danae didn't have time to reply before Summer slid in beside her, sidling up to the young Targaryen so that their hips were touching.
"Your sister may be distracted by the war, but she will not forget you." The sellsword motioned to a serving girl, who slammed a pitcher of ale and three mugs down onto the table sloppily. The alcohol sloshed over the rim of the pitcher and onto the sticky surface. "Aeslyn in power does not bode well for us. She will suspect we traveled to Braavos from the Wall, but once we leave she will have to take many blind guesses as to our whereabouts in the free cities."
Summer filled the mugs and shoved one towards Danae. James ignored the ale, glancing over to where the Grand Maester sat watching them from across the crowded room.
"My master told me of a trade ship that leaves on the morrow for Volantis," Summer continued. "If Volantis is truly where you wish you go, we must be on board before dawn. It is a long journey, but staying on the sea will keep you from being seen in the cities and news of your location will remain a secret to your sister."
James watched as Orin stood and shoved his chair back under the table forcefully. He stalked right past their booth and stomped up the stairs to his room. Over the quiet babble of the inn, they heard him slam his door shut.
"Your absence caused the maester to lose his mind in rage," Summer placed a hand on Danae's and leaned in closer to her. "When I arrived back at the inn, you were both gone. When he returned, he stormed up to your room and then sent me off to search for you when you were nowhere to be found. I lied and told him that James decided to show you the many beautiful temples along the Isle of the Gods."
The three glanced towards the stairway.
"Really, Lady Danae, you shouldn't have left, and you can't hide yourself from me so easily. I saw you sneaking away from the inn and I sent one of the maester's guards to follow you." She motioned to a nearby table where the muscular, blonde guard named Jon sat in a corner with a mug of ale and a serving girl upon his lap. He nodded his head in their direction.
"You are a beautiful and adventurous woman," Summer smiled coyly at Danae, her hand still resting on the Targaryen's, "and I mean to see you sit the throne as Queen of Westeros, but you really make a lousy spy." She laughed and withdrew her hand. "The guard is paid by the Grand Maester, but he will keep your secrets as long as he warms my bed every night."
The sellsword winked and leaned back in her chair to eye Jon and the serving girl. "Perhaps tonight my bed will be very warm."
James noticed Danae eying the stairway to their rooms warily. The angry departure of the Grand Maeser must have been uncharacteristic compared to the friendly, knowledgeable man she had spent so much time with during the past few days. He plans to control her as a puppet and keep her from the influence of anyone else. But why?
He cleared his throat. "I won't speculate the Grand Maester's reasons for joining us, but you are the reason Summer and I are here, Danae. Mayhaps we should leave now. We can search out the Targaryen ties in the city and you can begin to build a new life. Summer and I can... ah, remove the Grand Maester and you'll be free from his mad plan to seek whatever dark powers lie in Volantis. Forget the throne as Daenerys did, and spend your time in Braavos creating a family. Perhaps an ancestor of yours will one day acquire the means to take the throne."
Danae brought her mug to her lips and took a small sip, wincing at the ale's strong and bitter taste. "It's too late for me to escape now," she said, setting the cup aside. "The maester's dream of using the magic of Valyria to place my house back on the throne has taken root in my own heart. Braavos is not my home. This continent is not my home. Daenerys traveled to this city only after her campaign failed in Westeros, so how can I give up before I even make an attempt?"
She took Summer's hand in hers again and reached across the table to take James' as well. "We need to remain wary of the maester and his true ambitions," she said, "whatever they may be. But I am going to Valyria and I will need the help of the two people I do trust."
Summer immediately nodded and raised her mug of ale high while leaning in to whisper enthusiastically to their table, "To Queen Danae!"
Volantis is madness. James ran his thumb slowly over Danae's hand. Her touch was soft and he felt his heart flutter. She quickly pulled her hand away as she raised an eyebrow at him, and a warm flush crept up his neck and face. Oh, who are you kidding, James? You'll follow her to the shadow of Asshai.
"My sword is yours, my lady," he spoke quietly and took a drink from his own mug.
"Good," Danae replied quickly and he watched her hurriedly divert her lilac eyes. "With all her Lannister coin now, Aeslyn could have assassins searching the free cities." She stood to gather her skirts before turning back to face their table. "I will not spend my days rotting away in various inns on the eastern continent, but perhaps the two of you will need to be around when I explain that to our maester. We will be onboard that ship by dawn."
James longingly watched her wander through the tables of the inn and climb the stairs towards her room before he turned back to face Summer. The female sellsword's face held a look of bemusement and she winked at him playfully before sliding out from the booth.
She gave him a sympathetic pat on the back and he watched her approach Jon and the serving girl with a coy smile before downing his mug of ale and calling for another.
- THADDIUS -
"I'm hungry," Mellara complained loudly. Her voice was high and whiny, and Thaddius thought of his own little sister. Ashara had never been such a nuisance. Even as a little girl, the youngest Lannister had been the embodiment of a lady, reserved and delicate.
Mellara belched and then whined some more. "Can we stop yet? My stomach is growling."
Gods, this one never shuts up. Thaddius shifted the reins from one hand to the other and looked over his shoulder at the youngest Tyrell, riding in front of Benjen with her wrists bound and tied, just as her brother's were.
"If I cut out your stomach," he told her, "then you won't ever need to eat again. Would that suit you?"
Mellara glared back at him. "If you cut out my stomach," she retorted, "then I'll be dead."
Thaddius' handsome young face lit up with a smile. "Exactly. Dead girls don't need food."
Mellara glowered but fell silent and Thaddius turned back to the Roseroad before them. They had been traveling for over a week now and between Troy's quiet seething rage, Benjen's sulking, and Mellara's incessant chatter, he was rather sick of the Tyrells' company.
This had better be worth it, he thought, hoping his father would be pleased by his contribution. In truth, it was to King Aerion that the highborn hostages would be gifted, but Thaddius had never even met the man. There were only two people whose opinions mattered to him, his father and his brother, and Thaddius was confident that both would be proud.
"You should be thanking the Seven you're still alive at all," he told Mellara. "With the amount you eat, killing you days ago would have left the rest of us with enough food to rival one of Harys' feasts. You eat like an Umber, for being such a scrawny, ugly little thing."
The clopping of horses' hooves against the cobbled road was a steady, rhythmic sort of music that interrupted the stillness of the Kingswood. The pine trees rose around them like sentinels, their needles the only source of green in the hibernating forest.
"You should be ashamed to wear that white cloak," Troy spat. "Threatening little girls, calling women homely… what kind of knight are you, Lannister?"
"Ha!" Thaddius laughed, not bothering to even so much as glance at the Tyrell. "Not the Sword of the fucking Morning, that's for sure. You think having a "ser" in front of his name makes a man different than any other, Troy?"
"Ser Ulrich Dayne is an honorable and gallant knight-"
"Ser Ulrich Dayne is a man," Thaddius interrupted. "Do you forget that I serve beside him? I know the Sword of the Morning far better than you do. Believe you me, Tyrell, he isn't a god, and as for honor? Ha! He's a Dornishman. He fought and fucked his way across the eastern continent before he ever joined Hary's Kingsguard, and lest you forget, I wear the same cloak as he does."
"Protect the innocent, defend the weak," the Tyrell started to say. "Honor, and valor, and bravery-"
"Blah, blah, blah," Thaddius rolled his eyes. "Bravery and chivalry and a bunch of other nonsense, I know, I took the same vows as you and then some. The ceremony was dull enough the first time around, no need for you to do the whole thing all over again for me."
Remembering his knighting, it was all Thaddius could do to keep from yawning.
No wonder Damon had no interest in the order, he thought, remembering how his older brother looked as though he were about to fall asleep during the grand ceremony in the throne room at King's Landing years ago. It was probably for the best that Damon hadn't been paying attention, for he would have been sick with envy at the look of pride Loren wore when his son was sworn to the Kingsguard.
"Have you forgotten those vows, Ser Thaddius?" Troy snapped. "I don't remember any bits about holding knives to a child's throat, or kidnapping a lord's sons, or betraying your king!"
Thaddius frowned. "Who said anything about betraying my king? Aerion Blackfyre will be delighted to receive this little bouquet of roses as a coronation present."
Troy's face twisted into an expression of confusion. Benjen glanced over at his brother from atop his own horse but Mellara spoke before either of her brothers could.
"Aerion Blackfyre?" she repeated. "Who is Aerion Blackfyre?"
"He's your new king," Thaddius replied. "Oh, you'll meet him soon enough. I'm sure you'll like him."
"Harys Baratheon is king," Mellara said firmly.
"Well, I haven't betrayed Harys either. I'm following his orders. He said to take your brother back to King's Landing and that's what I'm doing. It's not my fault you and Benjen volunteered to come along. Believe me, I'd rather kill the whole bloody lot of you and go back to the Red Keep alone, but I suppose you haven't yet given me cause."
Troy glowered.
"I doubt a man such as yourself needs cause to slaughter an innocent."
Thaddius yanked the reins of his mount and brought it to a halt. The other horses stopped in turn behind him and dug their hooves at the cobbled streets impatiently, shaking their manes. I am awfully tired of this.
"You're right," he said, turning his horse to face the other two that carried the Tyrell siblings. "I don't."
Thaddius swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, his shining white armor clinking as his feet hit the ground with a thud. Benjen shifted nervously atop his horse, the ropes of his binds cutting into his wrists, and even Mellara looked uneasy but Troy continued to scowl angrily.
Thaddius marched deliberately to the horse that carried Troy and Mellara and grabbed the small girl by the shoulders and yanked her down. She began thrashing immediately, whipping her tangled brown hair about. "What are you doing!? Let me go!"
Her wish was granted when Thaddius set her down roughly in the center of the road, some distance from the horses. Her brothers soon joined her as the Lannister pulled them from their mounts as well, lining the three up on their knees in the middle of the Roseroad beneath a pale and cloudless sky.
"Alright then," he said calmly, standing before them. "Who will it be?"
The siblings exchanged nervous glances. "Who will what be?" Mellara asked with anxious confusion. As stupid as she is ugly.
"Which one of you will die?" Thaddius asked. He stared down at his prisoners with a look of apathetic boredom plastered on his attractive face. "Your brother here says that I don't need cause to slaughter an innocent human being, and I wouldn't want to prove him wrong, now would I? Knights aren't liars, are they?"
None of them responded and so he drew his sword and began to march for Mellara.
"No!" Benjen shouted, breaking his long silence. "No, please! Not Mellara. If you're going to kill one of us, kill me. Don't harm Mellara."
The youngest rose sat wide eyed on the ground, staring at her brother. "Benjen, no!" Her gaze flew to Thaddius. "You're not serious!" she declared, then looked at Troy. "He's not serious, is he?!"
Thaddius ignored her, looking to the oldest Tyrell. "What say you, Troy?" he asked. "Will you let your brother die to save your sister?"
Troy glanced at Benjen, and for the first time since they left Oldtown his glare vanished, only fear in his golden brown eyes. "Benjen, you don't have to do this," he told his younger brother.
"He's not serious!" Mellara shrieked.
"I do have to do this," Benjen responded, his voice quaking. "You are the heir to Highgarden. Mellara is my lady sister. Protect the innocent, defend the weak," he repeated his brother's words solemnly.
"Benjen…"
Thaddius watched their exchange with mild amusement before sheathing his sword. "Don't worry," he said soothingly, his face suddenly calm. "I'm not going to kill Benjen."
Mellara's shoulders sank in relief and the Highgarden heir finally released his breath.
"Troy is."
He could see the horror in their stupid faces, and felt a rush of adrenaline at the sight of their terror. Thaddius remembered the Iron Islands suddenly, and a fish at the end of his spear, a boy at the end of his blade, a cousin who taught him how to kill. He remembered Lannisport, and the dungeons beneath Casterly Rock teeming with scum with which to amuse himself. He remembered the woods between Crakehall and Cornfield, and the bandits who were no match for a knight.
For a moment it was as if he were back there, and instead of three highborn children staring up at him there were three savage outlaws, begging for his mercy, pleading for their deaths. And this time, his brother's nagging voice wasn't in his ear, urging him to let the man go, to stop, stop Thaddius, stop...
He walked back to one of the horses and unpacked Troy's sword that he had taken from him back outside of Oldtown. He pulled it from his sheath and then went over to Mellara and yanked her roughly to her feet.
"And just to make sure that you do," he said, holding her by her bound wrists in one hand and throwing the sword down in front of Troy with the other. Once it landed on the cobbled street in front of him, Thaddius drew his dagger and pressed it to Mellara's throat, taking a few steps backwards. "I'm going to wait right here with your sister. If you try anything stupid, I'll slit her throat, roast her body, and make you eat a piece every night for supper between here and King's Landing."
Or maybe I won't cut her throat, he thought. Such a quick way to die. Maybe I'll cut off her fingers first, and then her toes, and then her feet and then her hands... He saw the faces of the bandits in his mind's eye, could almost feel Damon shaking him by the shoulders.
Troy picked up the sword unsteadily in his bound hands and climbed to his feet.
"Don't!" Mellara was shouting, and Thaddius pressed his dagger closer against her throat. It would be so easy to silence that whining voice, so easy...
"Protect the innocent," Benjen said again. "Defend the weak. That is what a knight does."
"You're not a knight yet, Benjen," the older Tyrell shook his head. "You don't have to-"
"Then you will knight me now," his younger brother replied. "With your sword when you take my head." Benjen made a valiant effort to appear brave, but his lip was trembling as he turned his gaze to the round beneath his knees and bowed his head.
The sword shook in his hands and Troy tried to hold it steady as he raised it high above his brother's neck.
"Made it a clean stroke Troy," Thaddius called out cheerfully. "That way his head will be easier for you to carry back to King's Landing. Don't want the innards and all that hanging out."
Tears ran hot down Benjen's cheeks. "Do it, Troy," he whispered. "Do it."
"Do it!" Thaddius laughed, holding the cold steel to Mellara's neck. Troy brought the blade down with a dull thunk, slicing through bone and muscle and severing his brother's head.
"NO!" Mellara wailed. Her body went limp in Thaddius' grip as her legs failed her. When the Lannister released her, she collapsed onto the ground in a sobbing heap. Thaddius walked over to where Troy stood numbly and took the sword from his hand without resistance as the heir to Highgarden stared down at his brother's lifeless body.
"Look what you've done, Troy," Thaddius said with a sigh. "I had hoped to bring three hostages as a gift to King Aerion, but now I've just got two." He picked up the severed head by the hair and thrust it at Troy's chest. "Two and a half, I guess. Look on the bright side, though. Now you don't have to share a horse."
He stared at the hollow eyed Tyrell heir. Troy did not respond.
"Are you ungrateful, Ser Troy?" Thaddius asked, frowning suddenly. "Do you not appreciate what I've done for you?" He took a step closer to the lordling. "Fine."
Thaddius drew his sword, marched back to the horses and grabbed the reins of one of the mounts, yanking the beast towards him. In one fluid slice with his blade, he slit open the animal's throat and a torrent of blood came rushing out. Mellara shrieked as the horse collapsed onto the road.
"You can walk to King's Landing."
- DAMON -
Take the city, he had commanded, and take it they had done.
From the walls of the Red Keep, Damon watched. King's Landing below flickered red and black in the light of thousands upon thousands of torches. Stretching from the Street of Sisters to Flea Bottom, the Lannister soldiers took their due. Burning, looting, killing, and seizing any woman they found.
Bloodlust has taken hold, Damon thought with disgust. He couldn't help but see a splatter of red in his mind's eye, a head rolling, a sword stained forever.
"Stagslayer!" A shout cut through the fading sounds of combat below and Damon turned, broken arm set in a sling across his still armored chest.
"Ser Lyonel," he called out wearily to the approaching Lannister knight. "Keep your titles, I'd prefer a wineskin."
"Wine must wait, I'm afraid." The knight had charged through the Lion's Gate at Damon's side and the two clasped arms for a moment before breaking free. "The city is ours, three-hundred of our men lay dead, two-hundred wounded. Two thousand gold cloaks were put to the sword in the streets."
So much death… The city reeked of it. Even now the cries of the wounded reached his ears, smallfolk screaming to their gods for mercy. King's Landing bled and Damon knew his duty - to twist the blade even further.
"Search the keep," he said. "Bring all lords and ladies to the throne room. Those who swear fealty to Aerion will be allowed free roam of the Red Keep, those who do not will be kept as hostages. Anyone of low birth who does not swear fealty to the king will decorate a spike with their head." Before Ser Lyonel could turn away Damon grabbed him by the arm. "You will personally lead ten soldiers to the boy's bedchamber. I want Rickon Baratheon alive and unharmed."
Ser Lyonel nodded before departing and Damon turned, watching the city with a heavy heart.
Is this what it means to play the game of thrones? Smallfolk slaughtered in their sleep and children dragged from their beds? He had no taste for it, and the burdens lay like ashes on his tongue.
The walk from the keep's walls to the Great Hall left Damon drained. The adrenaline he felt during the sacking had been replaced with a steady painful throbbing from his broken arm. Each subsequent jab felt like a dagger and he winced in pain when a group of Lannister men rushing past brushed against the wounded limb.
The halls of the castle were familiar to him. It wasn't so long ago that the lords and ladies of the realm had dined here in the King's embrace. He could see them there, laughing, drinking, dancing.
How many of them lay dead now? Damon wondered. The ghosts had no answers for him and the halls remained silent, the din of battle fading like a forgotten dream.
Panicked shouts reached his ears as he neared the throne room, sending him into a sprint. He pushed open the giant oak doors to find chaos - shouting and screaming came from every corner of the room where ladies and lords stood, outraged and fearful, surrounded by Lannister soldiers. Upon the throne sat the body of Aerion; it took a moment for Damon to realize that the man was dead, blood oozing onto the iron swords of his seat.
King of Scabs briefly crossed Damon's mind before the true implications of what was before him sank in. The King was dead.
A hundred thoughts flashed through his head: traitors, lions, gold cloaks, each one fighting for space in his head, threatening to overflow.
"Who did this."
It was only a whisper, yet the cacophony died down.
"Who did this!" His voice came out in a roar now, anger and confusion boiling over into something else, something fearful.
"WHO KILLED THE KING?"
- SARELLA -
Sarella nursed a cup of sour wine, forcing a smile every now and then when someone approached her.
The Tower of the Sun had been converted from a war council to a feast. The nobles had argued for hours, and her head still ached and their voices echoed in her mind, despite the Dornish red that was slowly working its way through her bloodstream.
Lord Manfrey was trying to calm the Yronwood and Fowler lords, who had gotten into an argument so heated during the council that they eventually had to be pulled from each other's throats. Apart from the near brawl between the two long-feuding houses, there had only been three fights and no serious injuries.
It had been a calm war council.
It had also been unproductive.
Regardless of the fact that no decision had been made, or perhaps because of it, the men and women were ready to eat and drink the night away. Wine flowed freely and music filled the Great Hall, only serving to worsen the throbbing of Sarella's head. She turned the bottom of her cup to the ceiling and finished the wine.
Lady Ellaria sat to her right and Lord Anders to her left, but both were preoccupied arguing quietly with noblemen who approached the high table and occasionally even turning to bicker with each other, leaning over their food and pointing fingers across the Princess, exchanging heated words as she sat annoyed between them.
At least most of the Dornishmen and women seemed content to abandon talk of war in favor or food and drink. Sarella guessed that more than half the nobles present were drunk, and she hoped to join their ranks soon as a cupbearer refilled her chalice.
Across the hall, she spotted Martyn Dayne, seated with the attendants who had accompanied him from Starfall, and one of his younger siblings. Arianne, she thought, though it was hard to tell the two sisters apart. There was no sign of Jon or Cailan, and Ulrich was dead.
Or alive, depending on who told it. A raven had come a week ago, bearing news that the Sword of the Morning had been slain on Bloodstone, but before Sarella could even dry her eyes there were whispers that he had been seen in the Stormlands. She didn't know what to make of it.
She drank some more.
Martyn had been talking to one of the men across from him, but when he felt the Princess' gaze he turned and caught her eye. She smiled, and he reddened.
"Excuse me." She stood abruptly from her chair, causing Lord Anders to pause in his conversation with the Uller woman, and the two hardly glanced at her as she left the table, moving Sarella's now vacant seat out of the way so that they could better argue with each other.
She made her way to Martyn's side slowly, weaving through the feast, ensnared by half a dozen conversations along the way.
"Princess," he greeted her when she finally arrived. "I saw you leave from your seat quite some time ago. I had hoped you were coming to see me but once my food grew cold, I admit had my doubts." He smiled a handsome smile, and offered her his cup. "To Dorne," he said.
She felt her shoulders relax as she accepted, and took a long sip. "To Dorne," she agreed when she lowered the chalice. "Martyn, will you walk with me?"
With the Dayne at her side, she was able to escape to a corridor unmolested, and when the door closed behind them the sounds of the feast abated along with the throbbing of her head. She set the cup down on a small side table pressed against the wall of the long hallway.
Darkness had fallen and the marble floors were cool. She could feel their coldness through her thin jeweled slippers, but the air was still as hot as ever and she tugged at her burgundy gown, peeling the light fabric away from her sweaty skin.
Martyn's gaze flitted from her face to her hands as she adjusted the straps of the dress, though he tried his best meet her eyes.
"It's very warm in there," Sarella admitted.
"Yes," was all he managed to say, and she smiled at his nervousness. He hadn't been nervous in the training yard. Men only seem to feel confident with their swords. He picked up the cup and finished the wine before setting it back down on the table and turning back to Sarella.
"What do you make of this?" she asked him. "All of this. Stags, lions, roses, dragons..."
He cleared his throat. "Ah, well... I'm not really a man of politics, my lady. I can lead armies and swing a sword better than the rest of them, but when it comes to matters of secret alliances and betrayals and scheming, I'm afraid that as a nobleman I'm rather lacking." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.
He looked so much like Ulrich, his eyes, his face...
"The decision remains that of my father," Sarella said. "But this council today was meant to help guide that choice. I listened with his ears, and now I may need to speak with his tongue. I know what he would want, and that is to do nothing. But if we remain neutral, what will the victor do with us once he is finished? If the Black Dragon sits the throne in earnest, he will want us to swear our allegiance. If Harys reclaims his seat, he will ask where our armies were when he needed them..."
She sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be asking you this."
"No, it's fine. A Princess can ask whatever she likes from whomever she likes." Martyn smiled. The wine seemed to have given him some confidence. "I just wish I could help you."
"I'm sure that there's a way you can help me."
Martyn looked puzzled. "I apologize, my Princess, if there is I don't know it. As I said, I understand very little of the bickering of high lords-"
"Not with that, Martyn." She stepped closer to him, placing her hands upon his chest. "With this headache I've got..."
Sarella didn't bother to glance down the corridor for watching eyes. She grabbed Martyn by the collar of his tunic and yanked him towards her, pressing her lips against his again in a passionate kiss. Surprised, he stumbled slightly, caught off guard, and when Sarella broke the kiss at long last she looked at him playfully.
"My Lord, you do not take your own lessons to heart," she teased, "In the courtyard, you told me to always be steady on your feet. If you stumble," she traced a hand down his chest, fingering the embroidery of his shirt, coming to rest at the waist of his pants, "You're dead."
Martyn chuckled. "Only if you're slow."
As soon as he finished his sentence, he lifted her up and pressed her against the wall, her legs wrapping quickly around him. He started to kiss her neck, moving up along to her ear and then down to her lips. Sarella moaned with pleasure at his touch.
With her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her hands found his hair, wavy and pale silver. She ran her fingers through it before grabbing his shirt once more and tugging him ever closer, their kiss becoming deeper, more desperate.
He tastes like Ulrich...
When she finally broke away, she was panting. "Always keep your body towards your opponent," she repeated his words breathlessly. The wall was cold against her back, in stark contrast to the heat between her legs. She reached down and tugged at her dress, pulling it up so that no fabric rested between their bodies.
"I need you inside me," she begged. "Martyn, please." Her legs gripped him so tightly that he didn't even need his arms to hold her anymore as he pushed her up against the stone wall. Martyn undid the laces of his breeches with one hand.
"I suppose we should move onto the next lesson," he mumbled, his lips against her mouth. "Penetrating your opponent's defenses."
Sarella threw back her head, her back sliding up and down against the wall as he thrust in and out of her. It was impossible to hold back the moans, so she didn't try to, allowing her voice to echo in the corridor and mingle with the muffled sounds of the music and feasting from the great hall.
He felt like Ulrich.
- VARYO -
Varyo could not have said if had been one day or a hundred in the black cells, but slowly the exhaustion began to fade away. He was startled when he woke, unaware that he hadn't been awake.
I have barely been sleeping since Rhaevo died, he realized, and tried to focus on the events of the sack, his killing of the King. I killed him. These hands. The traitor is dead.
A flood of relief washed over him, and he heard his own voice chuckling in the silence of the cell. Aerion was dead and Ulrich Dayne would be dead soon, too, if he weren't already. I should have waited, he knew. That hadn't been the plan. I couldn't help myself.
The embers of rage he harbored were burning low, but they were bringing in a new hardness within himself. He had killed before in war, but this was different. Bit by bit, he had changed, from a weak boy with Rhaevo to help him, to a harsh man.
Harsh like my blood father, not Rhaevo, he noted.
The sound of the hinges of his cell door groaning and the clang of metal on metal stirred him from his thoughts as a guard moved to unlock his cell. The light from a torch came creeping in when the oak door opened, bathing the damp stone walls in an eerie orange glow. Varyo frowned and blinked for a moment before he recognized the young man who entered.
The lion cub, he realized, staring up at the lordling from his seated position on the cold stone floor.
The maesters had set and bound his broken arm, and it hung across his chest in a sling. His helm was gone, and now Varyo could clearly see the messy golden locks of his heritage, as much a part of his Lannister blood as the flashing green eyes that glared down at him.
At last, he comes.
Damon passed the torch to one of the men behind him. "Go back to the throne room," he told the guard. "If word comes of my father's arrival, fetch me immediately." As soon as the soldier left, he turned his attention back to the prisoner in the cell.
"Kingslayer."
Damon glowered at Varyo Velaryon and two different colored eyes stared back at him, one a watery green, the other pale grey. His voice came out calmly and icily, but Varyo could see the apprehension behind his eyes.
"I would question you," Damon said through clenched teeth and Varyro looked up at him and blinked innocently. He looked peaceful for a man who just slaughtered a regent as he sat on his throne. His gaze was steady, unapologetic.
"Why did you kill your king?"
Varyo didn't reply. He could hear the anger in his interrogator's voice and found it amusing. He lacks his father's equanimity, he thought bemusedly. Everything he feels is written all over his face.
"Why did you call Aeslyn queen?"
That question gave Varyo pause, and he frowned up at the Lannister in confusion. He truly hasn't figured it out yet, he realized, and the thought made him laugh out loud.
Damon seized Varyo by the collar of his tunic and lifted the silver haired murderer to his feet with one hand, slamming him into the wall of the cell and holding him there with his good arm against his throat.
"I would have you answer, kingslayer!"
Does he think I'm afraid of him? Varyo mused. What is left for me to possibly be afraid of?
"What else do you call the wife of a king? You should ask your lord father, cub," he chuckled. "It was all there from the start." Varyo sighed. He had been foolish, but he just couldn't help himself. "You think you're an honorable man? You think Aerion was a king?" the captive questioned. "Well, now you are a king, and I am only a kingslayer if we win. Otherwise we are both corpses."
What a fool, Varyo noted, Such a weak heart for such violence, and yet... Barely a week hence, I would have been the same…
"This war is far from over. You think because we hold this capital that the realm bows down?" Varyo probed. "You are going to need me, and my sellswords to do the deeds you cannot. Send me and my Bright Banners from the city, and you need not see us till the war is at an end."
By one way, or another.
Damon slowly lowered his arm, the spymaster slid gently down the wall, smirking.
"My lord?" A voice was heard, cutting through the silence of the cell. "Your father has arrived in King's Landing."
- ROBERT -
The aftermath of the sack was still visible as the ship glided into Blackwater Bay, though over a week had passed already. Smoke could still be seen rising up beyond the red walls of the capital, curling towards a clear sky in pillars and plumes above inns, winesinks, brothels, and homes. There were likely fewer fires now than there had been on the night the Lannisters arrived, but still the city burned.
It was a small boat, a simple trading cog whose purchase was brokered in the Whispering Sound over a light breakfast without much fuss. Maude Tyrell's quarters onboard weren't as spacious or elegant as the ones she had in Oldtown, but there were no bars on her window.
There was also nowhere for her to go.
Robert Manderly would have preferred to ride in one of the Tyroshi galleys purchased back on Bloodstone like the rest of his Golden Company, but it would not do to keep a prisoner such as Maude on a ship filled with sellswords, and he wanted to see to her safety personally. Can't trust a man whose only god is coin. For that reason, he rode in the improvised barge while half of his Golden Company followed in their own ships.
The sight of the Red Keep looming above the King's Landing from atop Aegon's Hill caused his breath to catch in his throat. It was a massive castle, and dwarfed the city below. Robert had never been to the seat of Westeros before.
It's even bigger than the stories tell it, he thought, and smells a hundred times worse.
The small vessel pulled into the docks where two Lannister guards were stationed expectantly. Ah, so the cunning Lion finally got himself a kingdom.
"Will you wait for a carriage, my lord?" one of the men in red cloaks stationed at the docks asked him. He looked too young to be garbed in armor and carrying steel, with a mane of neck long dark blonde hair, eyes sky blue and sharp features. What gave his age youth away, however, wasn't his outward appearance but rather the broad and easy grin on his face.
No man smiles outside a burning city, Robert knew. But plenty of boys do.
"I'm no lord, ser," Robert told him.
"And I'm no knight." The boy extended an armored hand. "Harlan Lannett," he introduced himself. "Heir to Nunn's Deep."
Robert noticed how he shook his hand with exaggerated firmness. "Robert Manderly, Lord Commander of the Golden Company. Lord Loren is expecting me. The Lannetts," he said, looking the boy over appraisingly. "Kin to the Lannisters."
"Aye." The boy was practically beaming now. "I rode through the gate with Damon Lannister, led the Nunn's Outriders in the van, I did."
"That's King Damon Lannister, now, I understand."
"I know him well enough to call His Grace by name," boasted Harlan, and Robert had a feeling that King Damon would be surprised to learn that.
"I won't wait for a carriage, no," he told the eager lad. "I will take Lady Maude to the keep myself."
Harlan lifted his chin to peer behind the Commander's shoulder at the Tyrell captive, standing silently behind her escort. She was dressed simply by her own standards, in a rose colored gown with a lace bodice, and wore no jewelry.
She'd be in trousers and a tunic if it were my choice, Robert thought. He knew what the streets of the city would be like, filled with roaming Lannister soldiers and half dead men with no reservations left about how to spend their numbered days. He'd sooner lead his men against all the Dothraki of the Great Grass Sea than an enticingly dressed maiden through a city that had just been sacked, but neither was waiting for a carriage on the docks with leering sailors and the same soldiers they'd find within the walls a tantalizing option.
He led Maude Tyrell from the docks to the Red Keep himself and she walked beside him cooperatively if not congenially. It would have been a crime to put irons on a woman as lovely as she, and so she wore none.
The atmosphere of the city was what he had expected. As Commander of the most elite army of sellswords in the known world, Robert had seen his fair share of war and its horrors. Sometimes the aftermath was worse than the battle itself.
With his akrah at his side and a few of his trusted men around him, Manderly feared nothing, not the prowling Lannister soldiers and the cries for help from the smallfolk they tormented nor the smouldering ruins of homes and storefronts, but Maude looked aghast.
He did not attempt to shield any of it from her. She might as well get used to it. She'll see plenty more horror in these weeks to come.
The gates to the keep were open, but a dozen soldiers with spears stood waiting to greet any visitors. Once Commander Manderly explained who he was and his business they stepped aside, informing him that the Lord Hand was waiting. Robert had hardly met the man, but the Warden of the West's reputation preceded him. He knew that Loren Lannister was not a man to keep waiting.
"I'm afraid I'll have to bid you farewell once inside the castle, Lady Maude," he told his silent prisoner politely as they made their way towards the Red Keep's iron doors. "I don't think that your quarters in the Red Keep will be as comfortable as they were when you last visited the castle, but there are cells here built for captives of high birth."
He meant for the words to be reassuring, but they came out dry and flat as the red waste. Maude said nothing. She turned her golden brown eyes up towards the castle, and set her jaw like flint.
"If you behave yourself, perhaps they'll allow you to have visitors. You should try to make friends," he offered, following her gaze up to the the giant crimson banner that hung above the massive archway that was the castle's entrance. A golden lion roared resplendent on the flag.
"I imagine you'll be staying here for quite some time."
- THE REAPER -
Durran Harlaw stood staring down at the map atop the table in his solar. Candlelight spilled across the frayed and yellow parchment, and wax dribbled down the candle and pooled at the bottom of its pricket.
"We strike at night. The Iron Fleet is at anchor at Pyke, we can catch them at unawares." His voice was low and rough from years of shouting orders over a roaring sea.
Rolf mumbled agreement and Ogo nodded but Baron was shaking his head. "They'd be blind to not see us coming," he said.
"Lord Aeron is-"
"Lord Aeron is a fool, yes, but Aeron doesn't control the Iron Fleet, Dagon does. And you can bet that Lady Alannys will not see the island fall so easily. That woman has as much bite as her husband did, and she has both loathed and distrusted you and our house ever since you sent Damron to his watery grave."
Durran's mouth tightened into a thin line amidst the stubble on his face as his kin continued. "This won't be another 'Smashing of the Shields,' cous. When we turned on the Greyjoys twenty five years ago we had Tyrius Lannister and Renly Baratheon on our side. Now Loren Lannister is married to Damron's sister and Harys has not a ship to his name since the lion took the throne and the royal fleet. What you speak of is madness."
The Harlaw lord slammed a fish onto the map, rattling the tin war galley figurines atop it. "Madness? The realm is at war. This is the opportunity our house has been waiting for. The Lannisters hold the capital, they dare not stir from King's Landing. Not even to defend their cousins. Harys will see our victory as his own. I shall be named Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands and will declare for the Stag once the Scythe banner flies above Pyke. A defeat of the Greyjoys is a defeat of the Lannisters. Harys will thank us for it."
"Like he thanked us after the rebellion?"
The two other men watched Baron and his cousin's exchange somewhat nervously. Rolf in his drab gray surcoat nearly blended into the bleak surroundings of Lord Harlaw's solar, and Ogo envied the captain's invisibility as Durran looked to him expectantly.
"The battle has not yet been fought," he offered tentatively. "It is impossible to declare a victor. Besides, we cannot use the past to predict the future with certainty. Harys is not Renly." His reply seemed neutral enough to satisfy neither Durran nor Baron, judging by the daggers both men were shooting at him.
"And Alannys is not Damron," Baron pointed out. "We took the Greyjoys by surprise when we joined the Lannister fleet to crush them at the Shield Islands. There is no surprise this time, and the lions are with the kraken now. We have no allegiances to the Baratheons, why should we take it upon ourselves to fight their battles?"
"Because Loren Lannister won't give me the Iron Islands!" Durran's rage was plain on his face now, and his voice rose to fill the room.
"Fine. Set your sails for Pyke. It is suicide and I will have no part of it." Baron turned and stormed from the room, leaving Durran with Rolf and Ogo. The tension did not depart with the captain, and Ogo shifted uncomfortably.
"He may be right, Lord Harlaw," he said tentatively. "Perhaps if we had more ships, more men... If Baron doesn't pledge his galley to your cause-"
"Andrik will."
"Aye, but his brother has the bigger one." Even Rolf nodded his agreement.
"I do not fear some kraken bitch!" The pieces went flying from the table and skittered across the floor. "I killed Damron, and I will kill his whore wife, too! I will kill every last Greyjoy on Pyke if I have to! These islands belong to me! They should have been given to me!"
"We sail in a fortnight. Andrik will join me, and the rest of the fleet, too..." He turned to Rolf and Ogo. "You will make sure of it."
- THE TYRELL HOST -
The capital of the Reach was often referred to as the "heart of chivalry," and Highgarden with its marble courtyards and trickling fountains was beautiful even in winter. The mood in Lord Baelor Tyrell's small council chambers, however, was ugly.
King Harys slammed his palm onto the letter on the table.
"Aerion Blackfyre?!" he bellowed, causing a few of the men at the table to flinch.
Lord Baelor was unaccustomed to seeing someone else seated in his chair at the head of the old oak table. Normally it would be himself, his sons, and his advisors in the tidy, sparsely furnished chamber of the castle where his council met. But when King Harys and his twenty thousand arrived at the Reach capital, the meeting room wasn't the only thing the Stag took over.
Harys moved into Lord Baelor's personal bed chambers, as they were more spacious than those reserved for guests. His rather rowdy entourage of cooks, servants, and courtroom entertainers also invaded various parts of the castle, including the kitchens and the quarters where the household staff lived. Baratheons were a boisterous folk and Lord Baelor's patience was running thin, but he tried to be an accommodating host given that a king was no ordinary guest. This king in particular had always been a good friend to Baelor, and as soon as this mess with Oldtown was sorted out he would make his daughter a queen.
They will be gone soon, he assured himself. Though not soon enough.
Any merriment the guests might have been enjoying while waiting for the arrival of Tyrell bannermen, however, dissipated instantly when the raven from King's Landing arrived with news of the sack.
"No one had heard of him," Paxter Tarly said, glancing at Lord Baelor. He was a soft spoken man who had advised the Reach lord for decades, but had never before sat at a council table with the King of Westeros, and he was unsure how to proceed. "They say he has the shards of his house's ancestral sword and that-"
"How did this happen?!" Harys spoke right over the advisor. "How in seven hells did they get into the city?" he bellowed, silencing the room even further.
"The Lannisters entered through the Lion's gate, and the Bright Banners and the Maiden's Men came through the River Gate, your Grace."
"The River Gate?" Harys repeated, incredulous. "And how do you explain an army of sellswords slipping past the entire royal fleet at harbor?!"
Paxter shot a pleading glance to Lord Baelor who gave him an encouraging nod, urging him to continue.
"Ah, the uh… Lord Estermont let them in."
A look of surprise washed over the face of the King. Aemon Estermont served on his small council as Master of Ships, and had held the position for years. The shock soon vanished, replaced by rage.
"That two timing turncloak traitor!" He slammed his fist against the table.
"All is not lost, Your Grace," Paxtor said. "We've heard rumors that Ser Ulrich Dayne's death is just that... a rumor. Whispers tell us that he yet lives, hiding somewhere in the Stormlands, bringing the lords to your cause..."
"What other news do your envoys send you, Tarly? What of the Hand, Alester? What of my brother; what of my son? Speak up!"
Paxter fumbled to collect the papers he had strewn about the table. "I, um, Your Grace," he stammered. "The Targaryen, er, the Hand, Your Grace, is believed to have fled. Your son is taken hostage, but I have no cause to believe that he has been harmed. And ah, your, uh, your brother, he, uh…"
Lord Baelor stepped in to the rescue at last, speaking plainly and authoritatively.
"Joseph is dead, Your Grace."
The other men at the table shifted in their seats uncomfortably and averted their gazes, but Baelor did not look away from his king.
"He was slain in the streets of the city by Lord Loren Lannister's son, Damon."
Harys showed no reaction on his face at first, and Lord Baelor was starting to wonder if he had heard his words when he noticed the King's fists clenching atop the table until his knuckles were white.
Harys stood suddenly and snatched the wine pitcher from the table, turning to hurl it against the wall as he let out a mighty roar. The pitcher smashed and the wine sprayed against the wall, running down the grooves in the stones.
More broken dishware, Baelor thought. In another month's time I will have to take out a loan from the Iron Bank just to clean this castle up.
The council members exchanged glances in the tense silence that followed as Harys stood staring at the shattered glass on the floor.
"Your Grace," Lord Baelor finally said, his voice calm. "I understand your pain. Thaddius Lannister has my son with him, and Benjen and Mellara are still missing. I don't know that the knight was involved in his father's treachery, but once he arrives at the capital to find Loren as Hand to a new king, you can be sure that Troy will used as a hostage."
He took a deep breath.
"My bannermen are arriving daily. Houses Grimm, Hewett, Merryweather, and Tarly are already here. Ashford will come on the morrow, Redwyne after that. It will take some time," he admitted, "and the Lannisters hold the advantage, but we will reclaim your seat and you will have your vengeance."
"I want that cub's head!" King Harys thundered, turning back to face the table. His steely blue eyes were alight with fury and his face was twisted into a look of glowering rage.
"And have it you shall," Baelor assured him. "Damon holds the position of Hand until his father arrives in the capital, after which the boy will likely return to Casterly Rock."
"I will burn Loren's castle to the ground!" Harys declared, slamming his fist against the table again.
Baelor sighed inwardly, but kept his face impassive.
"Casterly Rock is a rock, Your Grace. The fortress has never fallen. Damon will likely take much of his father's host back to Lannisport to defend the West." He reached towards the center of the table and pulled a map towards him, smoothing out the parchment and placing a finger down against the paper. "Our best bet would be to attack the Lions on the Gold Road, perhaps after Deep Den, where the cliffs narrow the pass and make it difficult for large armies to-"
"FUCK YOUR MAP!" King Harys boomed. He snatched the parchment from Lord Baelor and began ripping it to shreds, throwing the pieces about the table as the councilors stared in a mixture of disbelief and alarm. "Fuck the Gold Road! Fuck Deep Den and fuck the West!"
Once the map was obliterated, Harys stood panting at the head of the table, eyes darting from man to man yet seeing none of them.
"My brother is dead! This is no time to be making battle plans! You!" he turned and pointed a calloused finger at one of the lords.
Lord Merryweather, Baelor knew, but he doubted that the King remembered the man's name. He had been calling them all by whatever title seemed to pop into his head first.
"Prepare the Great Hall for a feast! We will eat and drink in Joseph's name tonight, and honor his memory!"
Lord Merryweather was the commander of a thousand knights and had sat as a trusted advisor to his liege lord for over a decade, counseling Lord Baelor on matters of military and economics. To be commanded to make arrangements for a meal was an abhorrent insult, but Merryweather simply bowed his head in polite response.
Gods bless him, Baelor thought.
King Harys rounded on the other men and snarled, "We shall toast to my brother tonight, and the next person to say the name 'Lannister' will be the first thrown over the walls of the Red Keep when we march back to my home!"
Lord Baelor stared up at his King with a worried frown.
IF we ever march back home…
- DAMON -
Loren Lannister was standing when the doors to the solar flew open, gazing down at a heavy wooden table covered in stacks of parchment, quills, and an inkwell or two. A newly lit candle burned brightly, illuminating the concentrated faces of a group of men huddled around him. His palms were pressed against the surface of the desk and he was speaking in a low voice.
"Connington moves to secure Storm's End, Hightower has the Golden Company at Oldtown..."
He looked up at his son's entrance and paused.
Damon's fist was clenched at his side. "You knew," he hissed.
Loren's gaze was as hard as stone. He waved his hand at the men surrounding his table. Their eyes darted apprehensively from the Lord Lannister to his son before bowing and shuffling out of the room hurriedly, closing the doors behind them.
They might as well have been invisible. Damon met his father's stare with an uncharacteristic fury.
"You knew the whole time," he said. "You sent me to sack this city, all so you could put a some mummer on the Iron Throne. You married Ashara to him. You married your daughter to that man and you widowed her! Why?!" His green eyes flashed with anger as his voice rose. He pointed to the door behind him, leading to the throne room. "Do you expect me to sit on that throne?! Is that why you wed me to the dragon girl? You think you can prop me up on that - that monstrosity?! So that I can be your puppet king?!"
The silence that followed seemed to stretch on for miles before the lord broke it.
"A puppet king." Loren's voice was ice, a striking opposite to the fire in Damon's eyes. "You naïve, stupid boy."
His voice rose, like black smoke from a charred field. "A lion does not sit, nor does he dance upon a puppet's strings. A lion RULES." A fist slammed down upon the heavy wooden table, accompanying the roar. "Did you expect to die with your drinks and whores, Damon? I've given you more than any one man could want, yet you would spit in my face rather than accept the responsibilities of your House."
Cold rage was plain on Loren's face, burning like an inferno in the ashes of his once calm demeanor.
"I've placed YOU on the throne, Damon. YOU with the armies of a hundred Houses at your back! YOU with a dragon wife, bound by blood to the Kings of old!" His eyes weighed his son as his words flew, just as they weighed him a hundred times before and a hundred times before that. "You think I've forgotten the shames you have brought this House? The women? The wine? Your heart is soft like a lamb, yet I call you son and sit you at my dining hall."
The fire burned low, yet growling could still be heard, filling the great chamber from the breath of the two lions.
"They call you Stagslayer..." Loren said pointedly, glancing at the sling upon Damon's arm. "…yet it is his badge of victory that you carry. Now is not the time to falter, it is the time to act."
The room grew still for a moment, the echoes of their shouting tapering off. Damon had borne his father's flogging his entire life, but now he had met something that he would not stand for.
"Joseph Baratheon died so that Aerion Blackfyre could be crowned King! Aerion Blackfyre! That is who I took this city for - not for YOU, not for ME, not for the Lannisters nor Casterly Rock! If you want the Iron Throne, you can sit on the damnable thing yourself! I will have NO part of it!"
The rage left Loren's eyes, replaced with something unfamiliar to Damon.
"Joseph Baratheon died because he stood against a lion. His name will be lost in time, but yours will be remembered, and every scar given to you will be a medal of honor to those that would inflict it. You have no choice. Rule or not, crown or not, the Baratheons and their allies march. Whether you stand against them or bend the knee, they will have your head and the heads of those you hold dear."
Loren turned and Damon noticed for the first time the stoop in his back, the grey upon his head.
"So that is it then," he said quietly, "I surrender to Baratheon, and I die. I sit on his throne, and he and his allies spend the rest of their lives fighting for my head. They would slaughter my wife, they would hunt down my children, they would murder my brother and sister. Why would you do this to me?" The question was almost pleading. "If you did not think me fit to lord over Casterly Rock, why would you place me on the Iron Throne, to rule all of Westeros?"
The question hung in the air between the two of them and Damon watched the old lion in the flickering torchlight. The figure seemed pale and gaunt; a trick of the light perhaps, but Damon couldn't help but remember the man who had stood before him moments before. Where was that man now?
The silence stretched on, filling the empty spaces, and just as Damon turned to depart Loren spoke, a quiet thing, and one that was almost lost amongst the stillness.
"Your mother was beautiful when we first met."
The words threw Damon off guard, not just the change in topic but the softness of his father's voice.
Damon remembered little of his mother, she had died when he was a boy of six, and he had grown up without gentle touches or soft embraces. His memories of the Greyjoy woman were soft things, secrets squirreled away in the confines of his mind. A coo-ed lullaby, a mane of flowing brown hair, sunlight trickling through a glass window, yellow and white.
He had learned early on in his life not to mention the woman to his father, it was a topic that turned Lord Loren's mood sour and ended, more likely than not, at the end of a strap. When Damon returned from Pyke at the age of twelve his father had sat him down and told him of the baby sister, the little girl Ashara who had killed his mother with her life. The girl had seen six name days at the time, and from that point onward all the soft things had fled. By thirteen he had bedded his first woman.
To have his father speak of his mother now, to breach the sacred grounds of his childhood… it felt treasonous, and left Damon with the taste of bile in his throat.
"Gods, Damon." His father's voice was rough, calloused, as if the years had been working away at it, raw and blistered, and it had hardened now. "When I first laid eyes on her I knew she would be my wife, Baratheon King be damned. I'd never wanted anything like I'd wanted her, but she was a Greyjoy, and the Greyjoys were the enemy..."
Loren turned to his son then, and Damon's angry retort died in his throat. His father's face was broken. Sagging where resolve and dignity had once held it up proudly.
"Your mother held no love for Casterly Rock, Damon, but she would have made a wonderful queen."
Loren smiled then, a real smile. "And you were always your mother's son."
- SARELLA -
"My Princess," the wisened old maester bowed before Sarella as he stood in the threshold of her solar, his long gray beard dusting against a beautiful Myrish rug. "It's time."
The rhythmic echo of Sarella's jeweled sandals could be heard pattering quietly along the empty hallway as she made her way to her father's chambers.
It was a trip she'd made thousands of times, beginning with when she first learned to walk. The cracks in the stone halls were now as familiar to her as the wrinkles on her father's face.
The light from the setting sun streamed in through the open windows, coloring the hallway with red and orange light. It was with a heavy heart that she made the journey this evening, knowing that this sunset would be her father's last.
Sarella paused on the threshold and took a deep breath before she opened the door and stepped inside.
Prince Arryn was lying on his bed, the furs and silks drawn up around him with his gaunt, palid face turned facing the last few rays of the sun streaming in through the window. His attendants bowed to the Princess and stepped from the room as Sarella took a seat beside her father's bed.
"My sweet child," he spoke in a whisper and reached up to brush his hand softly against her cheek. A violent cough shook his shrunken frame and Sarella placed her hand over his own and squeezed. "Dorne is yours now," he managed to say.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she confessed with a sad smile. "There's so much I don't know, so much I don't understand... I've never even traveled outside our borders before for more than a week or so."
Arryn returned the grin weakly. "Then it's a good thing you will only be ruling within them."
The sun continued its slow journey towards the horizon, and the room gradually grew dimmer as the two sat in comfortable silence.
"Do you remember your mother?" Prince Arryn asked after a long moment, drawing a deep wheezing breath.
"Of course I do."
The Lady Martell died when Sarella was still a girl, but she could recall her mother's face easily. The image in her head was of a Princess healthy and whole, her brown eyes filled with life and her bronze skinl all aglow, not like she had been on her death bed. Then her face whitened and her eyes emptied as the viper's venom stole her away from the world. Sarella didn't like to remember that Princess.
"I once told her the same thing, when my father died. Do you know what she said to me?"
Sarella shook her head.
"Nothing. She struck me." He began to chuckle, but the effort winded him and he quickly fell silent, catching his breath. "The gods don't care if you're ready," he said, his eyes sparkling. "They do what they want regardless. That's why they're gods."
"And we are just men," Sarella said, apprehension on her face and in her voice. "And men make mistakes. Mistakes that can have enormous consequences when one rules an entire kingdom. Men are fallible, and fragile, and often times they don't have the slightest idea what they're doing."
Prince Aryyn rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and gave her hand the smallest squeeze.
"Then it's a good thing you're not a man."
He smiled and turned his gaze away from her to watch the last of the day's light fade as the sun finally set.
- RYMAR -
Rymar Royce was a man used to prying eyes.
Brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, even violet eyes... All sorts of them, gazing across the realm from the frigid frontier of the Wall to the boiling sands of Dorne. What the Master of Whisperers wasn't used to were those eyes not belonging to him.
The ones he saw now stared down at from the severed heads of men decorating spikes on the battlements of the Red Keep, following him as he was prodded along by the Lannister guards. These men in red cloaks hadn't yet tasted the mummer's coin, their eyes were foreign and colder than any winter the Valeman had ever lived through.
The heads blamed him. You could have prevented this, they said, and the guards shunned him with his strange tattoos and small frame, drowning in robes of rusty bronze. Freak, their eyes said.
The throne room held even more eyes, and ears too, but none of them gave Rymar enough attention to make him feel uncomfortable. Not like when the guards burst into the small chambers he had in Maegor's Holdfast.
Every pupil was focused on the man at the foot of the Iron Throne, and every ear attuned to his booming voice.
"The Targaryens once stood where I stand now," Loren Lannister was saying, "conquering the seven kingdoms with flames and blood! Westeros bowed to them and to the Baratheons who followed, staking their claim on the Trident with Robert, the corpses of their opposition dead on their swords!"
The eyes Rymar was particularly interested in were not visible. The King atop the chair of tangled metal had his gaze cast to the floor. Damon looked as though he wished to disappear.
"A king of this land takes by blood! He takes by force! He takes by power! What blood more righteous than the Lion? What force mightier than the armies of the Westerlands? What power more devastating than the iron fist of Casterly Rock?"
Loren's voice was loud but cold, a fierce wind off the Bay of Ice. At the back of the hall, flanked by soldiers, Rymar could only shiver as it went through him.
No one in the room stirred, their gazes transfixed on the Warden of the West. With a sudden, startling sound, the banners unfurled. Huge, crimson flags were unraveled from the balcony, and the golden Lannister lion roared resplendent upon them. A few women gasped, men looked up at the sigil fearfully, and a ghost of a smile appeared on Lord Loren's face.
"None," he said, his voice so quiet that from his place in the back, Rymar had to strain to hear him. He watched as the Lannister unrolled a sheet of parchment and held it up to read aloud.
"In place of the traitor, Alester Targaryen," he called out across the hall, "it is the will of his Grace that Loren Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West, be appointed Hand of the King."
A hushed murmur swept through the crowd, and the small smile on Loren's face seemed to widen ever so slightly. Rymar saw the Tyroshi captain at his side cringe for a moment, but then his hard gaze flew to the Master of Whisperers and Rymar averted his eyes.
"The King also wills," Loren continued, "that Ser Thaddius Lannister of the Kingsguard take the place of Ser Jaime Florent as the order's Lord Commander."
Rymar had his doubts that the young man on the throne had willed any of this. He looked downright miserable on the great seat of iron, as still and motionless as a corpse, almost as though he worried that any movement at all would result in one of the jagged, rusty swords at his back wounding him.
A reasonable concern. The Iron Throne likely had more claws than even his Lion father.
"The false King, Harys Baratheon, will be considered a traitor unless he presents himself before the King within a month's time to swear fealty. The traitor's son, Rickon Baratheon, will be held as a guest by the King, until such a time as the loyalty and allegiance of House Baratheon has once again been established."
Rickon.
Rymar had expected this, but that did not make it sit any better with him. Loren rolled the sheet of parchment back up.
"All those that do not swear fealty to Damon Lannister, the rightful King, will be considered traitors of the throne and will hereby be relinquished of all lands and titles and put to death." He raised his arm and pointed in the direction of the throne behind him.
"Swear, my lords! Swear your loyalty to the Iron Throne! Swear your allegiance to my son, Damon Lannister! Swear fealty to your rightful king!"
They did. Rymar watched as one by one the lords and ladies present in the Throne Room went and bowed before the Iron Throne and the uncomfortable man who sat it. He recognized lords from the Westerlands in huge numbers, but there were Riverlanders as well, and men from the Crownlands. Even a few from the Reach were present, all likely lingering guests to Harys' feast, or friends of his who had come seeking the favors and coin the Stag king was so quick to dole out.
It felt like ages had passed before the Tyroshi shoved Rymar forward, pushing him through the crowd until he found himself at the foot of the dais. The men and women in the audience parted easily enough for him, as if trying to avoid touching the Master of Whisperers. Some even shot him dark glares, but most avoided looking at him entirely.
Is there anyone more loathed than a spy? Rymar wondered. Is there any job more thankless than this? Or more important?
The Tyroshi sellsword pushed him to his knees before the throne, and Rymar felt the soft Myrish carpet through his robes. "Your Grace," he spoke to the floor, "it is an honor to stand before you. As the Master of Whisperers I serve the realm, and it would by my honor to continue to do so under its new king."
He did not look up, nor did he raise his voice. It wasn't the King's gaze that he felt boring into him, it was the Hand's.
"For the benefit of the realm?" Loren hissed, "Do not mistake yourself, it is for the benefit of the Lannisters that you serve now. You are not irreplaceable, Master of Whisperers. Do not forget that."
"My Lord Hand," Rymar replied calmly. "I meant no offense. The Lannisters are what is best for the realm, better than the Stag ever was or ever could have hoped to be. If it is my loyalty that you want, then know that you already have it."
And you've had it longer than you realize.
"Those who are loyal shall know the lion's generosity," Loren said. "Those who prove false shall know a traitor's death."
The Tyroshi captain hauled him to his feet and shoved him back towards the crowd, and the Lord Hand called out to his back when the Master of Whisperers turned to depart.
"A Lannister always pays his debts," he said. "You would do well to remember such things."
Rymar tried to hide the smile that played at the corners of his lips.
Oh believe me, Lord Loren, he thought, I've been counting on it.
- DANAE -
The free cities bustled with trade. An endless sea of people flowed between the nine city-states grouped along the western coast of the eastern continent, but Danae never saw anything beyond the harbors.
The ship that Summer's master had directed them to was a broad and sturdy cog, a merchant vessel full of gold destined for Volantis. Along its journey, it stopped to spend that gold on spices from Pentos, fine lace and silk from Myr, pear brandy and dyes from Tyrosh, and wines from Lys.
In each new city, Danae made the climb from below deck to the ship's surface, her petite frame wrapped in a ragged brown cloak that covered her hair, hoping for a quick glimpse of the world around her before the Grand Maester came to insist she return to her cramped quarters aboard The Shy Maiden so that her presence would remain a secret.
"Aeslyn's spies are everywhere, my lady." Grand Maester Orin would speak with inflated authority and shake his head at the Targaryen in disapproval before disembarking to conduct his own mysterious errands, leaving Danae to hole up with Summer and James while they waited for his inevitable return, just as the ship prepared to sail again.
The sailors of the ship joked that the vessel was named for Danae, teasing her reclusive nature. She hated hiding below deck, even though she enjoyed the company of the two water dancers, Summer having quickly become as much of a friend to her as James was.
Their time in each city was short. The goods of the ship were unloaded and merchants traveled to and from the docks to trade with the captain. The waterdancers played cards, drank ale, and practiced their swordplay while Danae read through every book she could find on the ship at least twice. James often ventured out to the harbors briefly, returning with food for their group and small trinkets for Danae.
Each night Danae curled up to rest beside Persion. His pearly white scales warmed her as their bed rocked back and forth in time with the movement of the ship. It became increasingly difficult for the maester to draw Danae away from the waterdancers so that they could speak in private.
In the beginning of their journey from Braavos, he would knock on the door to the small room Danae shared with Persion every night. His presence in the room made her uncomfortable, as he frequently chose to sit beside her on the cramped bed when diving into a long and rambling lecture of the magic of Valyria.
In Pentos, Summer had stumbled upon one of the awkward meetings one night as she was making her way back to her room with the guard Jon. She immediately took to sleeping in Danae's room and as the visits from the maester dwindled, the two girls became even closer. Summer would regal Danae with tales of her amorous adventures. Some shocked the Targaryen, some made her laugh, and nearly all of them made her pale cheeks flush redder than the dragon on her family's banner.
Several days after they departed from Lys, Danae sat below deck and ran her fingers along Persion's spinal crest as the dragon snorted in his sleep. She laughed softly when black smoke curled from his nostrils, then looked up at a quiet knock on the door.
"M'lady." Summer appeared in the threshold, and a sarcastic and exaggerated curtsy accompanied her coy smile. "We approach the harbor of the old and proud city of Volantis. Thought you might want to see."
Danae rose quickly, opened her trunk, and gently place the lazy dragon inside. She shut the door behind her and nodded to the Grand Maester's guards, who took their place outside the room, and then she climbed the steps to the deck with Summer.
The heat and humidity of the southern Essosi city hit Danae in full force as she stood above deck. She was just in time to see Grand Maester Orin step quickly off the boat, and Danae stood on her toes to watch him navigate through the docks before finally stopping beside a trade vessel flying a Westerosi sigil with an orange and red sun and spear.
What business does the maester have in Dorne?
Danae tugged at the cloak as beads of sweat dotted her forehead and she gazed upon Volantis for the first time. The city possessed an old and worn beauty, the cracks in its facade showing the age in its once extravagant exterior like wrinkles on an aged face. The bay alone looked large enough to swallow Braavos in its entirety.
On the eastern half of the city, she saw a huge wall of fused black stone erupting from the earth towards the sky. Danae recalled from her readings that the wall was constructed thousands of years ago, when the city was nothing more than an outpost of the empire of Old Valyria. To this day, only those who could trace their blood back to Valyria were allowed to enter within the Black Wall. Inside its sprawling walls were the lords of ancient ancestry who controlled the city.
The Old Blood, they called themselves, and Danae scoffed at the thought. Their blood may be old, but mine is of the real Valyria and not some outpost. My blood is that of dragons.
On the western horizon, a four story monstrosity rose beside the harbor. It looked to be a dim labyrinth of alcoves build around a courtyard with a trellia of flowering vines. Summer followed Danae's gaze.
"The Merchant's House," she offered. "They say it is the finest inn in all of the free cities. Its common room is supposed to be larger than half of the great halls in Westerosi castles. I hear the doors have very strong locks, and every room holds thousands of secrets from centuries past."
"I'm sure you can find the same secrets in any brothel," Danae rolled her eyes at the inn's ostentatious appearance. "Or in the Red Keep."
Before Summer had a chance to respond, James approached from below deck and bowed his head before taking his place at Danae's side and turning his eyes to the city.
"Captain Doniphos tells me the city is uneasy, m'lady," he spoke quietly. "He says there is unrest among the political parties concerning their questionable alliances with the other free cities. They spend their days squabbling over alliances with magisters, archons, and sealords and they ignore the growing needs of the city and its vast number of people."
Danae recalled little of what she had read on Volantene politics. The ever-changing triarchs of men who called themselves tigers and elephants proved dull reading.Tigers and elephants who are the key to the slave trade. She thought on the reputation of the city. It has been written that there are at least five slaves for every free man in Volantis.
"Volantis has a large population to ignore, and I'd rather not stay to see how this story evolves. Is this the end of the captain's trade route?" she asked. "Do we set off from here for the Demon Road?"
"It seems Doniphos is willing to present us with an alternative option, Danae," James replied. "He is willing to grant us passage to a port along the road so that he can meet with a trade envoy from Mantarys. The good captain is looking to expand his commerce into transporting slaves between Mantarys and Volantis," James looked behind him and swept the area above deck with his hazel eyes before continuing. "He led me to believe that the Grand Maester has paid him quite extravagantly to do so. Where does the man's money come from?"
Danae and Summer looked at each other and shrugged. In truth, Danae had often wondered the same thing.
"Doniphos also spoke of fire spells saturating the land along the Demon Road," James said, "and as I expected, he told me we're all insane. We can march from the Demon Road down to the ruins of Oros, but we won't be able to find a ship willing to take us into the Smoking Sea."
While he was talking, Danae noticed several slaves with bent backs pass by their ship. Each wore an intricate tattoo on his or her face, ranging from tears to flames, and even the stripes of a tiger.
"Perhaps we are mad. What lies beyond the Demon Road but magic? Provided they don't kill us, these fire spells could be exactly what we seek for Persion,"Danae spoke quietly as her eyes darted across the scene in the harbor below."We've known the dangers of this adventure all along, but the rewards could be beyond our wildest imagination. We survive the ruins and I take back the Iron Throne, or we perish in the attempt. What could this journey end in but fire and blood?"
Danae reached to wipe the sweat from her brow and took a deep breath of the humid air. "But if we must die, then what better way to do so?"
"Valar Morghulis," Summer and James responded in unison, though Summer replied with a hearty vigor and a smile while James grew pale.
"Tell the captain we leave upon the Grand Maester's return," Danae told Summer.
She lifted the hood from her head as she disappeared from view below deck with James on her heels. The sweltering heat had dampened her hair and she reached back to pull her long tresses away from her neck. "I do not wish to remain in this atmosphere any longer than we must," she told the waterdancer.
James raised a hand to wipe the sweat gathering on his own face, unsure if the atmosphere she referred to meant the sweltering heat of the tropical climate, or the city itself with its tattooed slaves, strange edifices, and rumored unrest.
He nodded his agreement. "I couldn't agree more."
- VARYO -
Varyo brooded up the Gold Road with the Bright Banners. His anger had been fierce when he killed Aerion, but the black cells had calmed and soothed it; there was only a cold rage in him when Loren Lannister came to see him.
"Too soon to be named Kingslayer, Varyo," he had told him. "It is far earlier than we had planned."
War makes fools of us all, the Velaryon knew, and told the Hand as much as he squinted in the light of Loren's torch. Now he rode beneath the light of the low hanging sun, his horse's hooves plodding along the frozen ground, beating the cold earth into submission as he led his sellswords to Stony Sept.
The Riverlands will bow, he knew. Or they will burn.
Emmon Baelish thought himself a clever man, but even a fool can tell which way the wind blows and Emmon seemed oblivious to the gale that was sweeping across Westeros. Dorne could afford to be neutral, Varyo knew, but the Riverlands with its shallow coffers and lack of natural borders made a poor professor of peace.
They will profess their love of the new king soon, Varyo thought. A flayed man will profess anything.
He shifted in his saddle. His body still ached from its confinement and the hard riding did not make for an easy transition to freedom. Still, he was glad to be rid of the darkness of a cell and sit again stop a horse with a mission, though he could not say what he expected awaited him upon its completion.
A headsman, perhaps. Varyo had told Lord Loren his thoughts on that as well. "Damon hates me for it," he had said, but the father replied with certainty in his cheerless, monotone voice.
"Damon can be swayed. The boy sometimes acts as if he were honorable." Loren made some bitter sound that might have been a laugh. "What honor he finds in the bottoms of his cups..."
Varyo pushed any thoughts of the distant future from his mind. He had to focus on what lay ahead. The Lannisters had sent him forth with his company and instructions to use it, and he intended to follow through.
They passed through a village after they crossed the Blackwater rush. It was small, but its holdfast - if one could call the small tower attached to a courtyard a holdfast - still flew the crowned stag of Baratheon.
"Take the village," Varyo ordered. "I want to see who hung this flag."
"You heard the lord, you sons of whores, take the village!" Yarro Brokensteel bellowed.
Some of the village guard resisted, but old steel was no use against the honed blades of the Bright Banners, and soon the villagers were lined up outside the sad little castle.
The lord was dragged forward by two of Varyo's men, along with his village guards. What useless excuses for soldiers.
He pleaded and begged and threatened, but all that stopped when he was thrown before Varyo's horse.
Varyo still wore his eastern armor, but now the half-cape had been accented with a hooded-cloak of black. Black like the cells, black like Aerion's blood on the throne.
He fixed his mismatched eyes on the man, and regarded him blankly.
"Did you fly this flag?" he questioned.
The lordling spat in Varyo's direction and sneered in reply. "Long live the true King, Harys Baratheon."
"You see this man?" Varyo called out to the villagers. "He is loyal to the stag king, but we have a new king now. The penalty for treason is death."
The once proud lord wept like a child as they strung him up from the trees in front of his smallfolk. His guards joined him soon enough, and four of the Tyroshi took their rewards from the village maidens, who were on the trees soon after.
They left the village with its holdfast burning.
A lion yet has claws, Varyo thought, forcing himself to look at the hanging figures. This is what war looks like.
They passed the Blackwater Rush two days after, and left the Gold Road going. Behind their baggage train, the crows were already gorging themselves.
- THE STORMLORD -
Orys Connington gazed thoughtfully at the ancient castle wall. They were higher and thicker than any other, and the keep's great tower rose to the heavens like a vast stone fist smashing out from the rocks beneath.
How am I to take that? the Griffin wondered from atop his destrier. Not by force, if I can help it.
He was certain he could.
The Stormlands had declared for Damon Lannister and proclaimed Orys Connington their Lord Paramount, but the last bastion of Baratheon rule still stood tall and proud on the edge of Shipbreaker Bay, and until the crowned stag atop the battlements were pulled down and replaced with the griffin of House Connington, Orys' rule would be no more than a joke to the Stormlords.
He had to take Storm's End, whatever the cost.
As he gazed at the vast gray fort, he contemplated what was going on inside. Harys had taken all the Baratheon troops down south, so he doubted there would be anyone left to marshal. That gave Orys some solace. He knew that however many men were left inside, they wouldn't be enough to defeat the mighty Connington host surrounding Storm's End.
Banners proudly flapped in the wind, adorning the camp with the nightingales of Caron, the moths of Horpe, the suns and moons of Tarth. Colors and shapes of all sorts, all closing in on the black stag of Baratheon that flew atop the main keep.
The only Stag left inside Storm's End was a boy by the name of Cleos Baratheon. Orys was not a stranger to the child. He was Harys' youngest brother, but at three-and-ten he was shorter than any Baratheon ought to be and had arms like twigs. Shy, weak, and said to be a craven, the boy was Baratheon only in name, and nothing else.
And yet he was the house's last hope. The thought made Orys smile.
If the craven yielded the castle as expected, he would be taken hostage and used as a bargaining chip to deal with Harys. If he chose to fight, however, most likely the boy would be killed. Orys was counting on the boy's cowardice to avoid bloodshed.
Now that the swollen sun was edging towards the horizon, Orys was mounted and ready to ride to the castle gates to treat with Cleos as they had arranged. He glanced once more at the castle from atop his destrier, drinking in the sight of his future home, then kicked his heels into the horse's flanks and shot off as his squire galloped close behind bearing a banner crowned with the red-and-white griffins of his house.
The gate swung open with a sorrowful creak when Orys and his honor guard approached, and out rode a small boy atop a palfrey that still looked far too large for him. Cleos Baratheon swayed in the saddle, struggling to control the horse, as Orys rode confidently towards him. The stag's guards drew their swords as the Griffin approached, yet Orys simply smirked and waved a friendly hand towards Cleos.
"My boy," Orys called out to the keeper of Storm's End. "Thank you for meeting with me here."
Cleos glanced shyly at the Lord of Griffin's Roost, then let his eyes fall to the ground, unsure of what to say or how to react. The most resplendent of the guards accompanying him, seemingly the castle's castellan, spoke up after a moment's silence. "This is Cleos of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, and you will address him as my lord, not boy." Cleos' eyes went briefly to the castellan, but his head remained bent down towards the muddy earth below.
Orys nodded in feigned apology. "I beg your pardon, my lord." He waited for an answer, but when none came he cleared his throat and called out, "I have come to negotiate your surrender, not sit in silence. My lord, I-"
"You can have it." Cleos' gaze was still firmly planted on the ground, but at least he was addressing Orys now. In his soft, timid voice, he continued, "Storm's End is yours if you… if you allow me to escape. Ser Edmure said it'd be so, and Maester Guymon, he…" The boy's voice trailed off as he shyly raised his head to look Orys in the eye.
So he really is a coward, Orys thought smugly. He grinned widely and warmly. "So you yield?"
Cleos Baratheon shrugged his narrow shoulders slightly, his face etched with uncertainty. "Y-yes, I suppose…"
"Very wisely done, my lord!" Orys beamed. "Give me an hour or two, and I shall return with the main part of my host to take the castle into my command. I assure you, you will be treated kindly, young Cleos, and as-"
"No." The word cut through Orys' joy like a sword piercing through armor. The castellan had a grim look on his face as he spoke. "Lord Cleos has demanded he be pardoned and allowed to go free in return for his cooperation. Allow him to go, my lord, and you shall have the castle and all that being the Lord of Storm's End entails. But should you hold my lord hostage here, we can and will keep our gates closed until King Harys arrives to liberate us."
Orys let off a loud, sharp laugh. "You cannot survive a siege, ser. That brave and valiant king of yours emptied the stores when he took his entire army south to save his Tyrell woman. I know it, and you know it, so let us put aside the jest, shall we?" His eyes grew cold and dark, and his voice was laced with menace. "Give me Cleos, and give me Storm's End, and you and the rest of your folk will be spared from my host's wrath. If you fail to comply, I shall be forced to starve you out, which shouldn't take more than a fortnight if I am correct in my presumptions. You have my terms, ser. I expect to see the gates wide open for me in an hour's time. I know what I would do if I were in your position."
Orys Connington spurred his mount and rode off back the way he came.
When he reached his tent, Orys commanded his squire to fetch him a roast rabbit stuffed with herbs and spices, along with a glass of Arbor Red to wash it down. The meal was ready within ten minutes, and it tasted of victory and triumph.
Outdoors, thunder growled angrily and dark clouds rolled over the land, spitting rain down onto the Stormlands. The canvas of the tent fluttered noisily as a cold, sharp wind swept over the land.
When an hour was up, Orys stepped outside his tent and found his men ready and awaiting his orders. He mounted up, then gazed over his army towards the castle. Sure enough, its gates lay wide open, like arms awaiting embrace. Yet something still felt wrong.
"Lord Connington!" It was Corliss Caron, hurrying towards Orys and waving his arms in the air to get his attention. "Lord Connington, ship spotted!"
Orys frowned. He had chosen not to bring any naval support with him to Storm's End, as House Baratheon had just one ship docked there. It was a good distance from the castle itself, anchored down at a stony beach below the cliffs on which the castle was perched. Orys had deemed it no danger, and had chosen to ignore it and focus on sieging Storm's End first, but as he rode up to the cliff's edge with Lord Caron, the ship was taking sail, edging its way from the shore towards the freedom of Shipbreaker Bay.
It was hard to tell what was going on aboard the ship from so far away, but Orys could guess. One of the figures on the distant vessel was smaller than the rest, no larger than a mere boy.
Cleos Baratheon, trying to escape his fate. Orys' face remained impassive. Well so be it. He is already dead in the water, such a shame, but better dead than alive and free.
The ship struggled against the wind and the waves and its yellow sails adorned with the crowned stag of Baratheon flapped and flailed madly. It swayed sickeningly as it crashed from one tall wave to another, and then disappeared beneath a huge wave only to re-emerge several seconds later.
"I can send out archers to try and slow its progress, my lord," Corliss Caron was saying, but Orys silenced him by raising his hand.
"I do not think we need to take action here, Lord Caron," Orys said. "The storm will surely take care of this one."
And it did. Shipbreaker Bay lived up to its name and swallowed the tiny ship whole with one huge crash of foam and saltwater. Orys Connington watched with a look of nonchalance on his hard face. When the scattered remains of the boat were scattered by the sea, he stared for a moment longer, then pulled on the reigns and drove his horse towards the open gates of Storm's End.
- VARYO -
It had been a miserable march. Varyo split the Bright Banners up into a selection of raiding groups and foraging parties, but now the men were beginning to meet at their main target.
The town stood low on a hill, with a small stockade around it. The sellswords had surrounded it, but they hadn't been as silent as Varyo would have liked, and the town had prepared for their coming.
His battle leaders were around him as they viewed from a nearby ridge.
"They should have prepared a number of defenses," a large Summer Islander that went by Keen Bequo said pointing to the main gate. "But we should have that gate down before the moon is high. I have a steel horse ram on one of the carts."
"It won't be as easy as the other villages," the Blight complained, tugging on his filthy beard. "There will be a good number of swords, maybe even some hedge knights."
"You smell of shit and wine, old man," the new Tyroshi captain they called Maidensblood replied. "It's high time we had a real battle, nothing gets your rod hard like killing men! Blood on the blades then blood down there!"
Varyo regarded them in silence, his eyes cold and focused.
"Get the ram, the town is taken before the hour of the wolf. I want the lordling alive and I want the holdfast unharmed."
The town burned barely an hour after. The guards were mostly green boys on the outer walls, and had turned and run when close to a thousand swords made it to the walls. One hedge knight had attempted to corral some of the more experienced town watch into a shield wall. Maidensblood rode the man down laughing, and soon the defense had completely collapsed.
The holdfast was no better. It was mostly well constructed, but many of the doors were barely stronger than that of a croft, and these were splintered in no time by the siege hammers.
The townsfolk were shepherded out onto the green beside the sept steps that gave the town its name. The remnants of the defense had been nailed to the green's trees, bringing forth shocked cries from some of the assembled smallfolk.
"These men were traitors to your new king!" Varyo called to the crowd, "and this man most of all."
The lordling was brought out stripped. He spat and fought when they had caught him, and had even driven his sword into one of Yarro's men, but eventually, three teeth, two broken ribs and an eye later, he had become more meek.
"Now he suffers the fate of any who will oppose the King."
Two of his more brutal men brought out the sharp hooked knives flayers were fond of.
They eventually listened to the lordling's pleas for death and he was hung over the sept steps. They had taken all the skin from his legs and blood stained the stones of the town square.
"If you do not present a threat to me," Varyo told the crowd "I shall not have to do any more flaying, and you shall find me a kind guest."
He rode his steed to his new lodgings in the holdfast, deeply conscious of the silence that followed him.
- THADDIUS -
Beneath a bleak and cloud streaked sky of gray, the white knight led his prisoners through the city gates. They weren't as crowded as they were when Thaddius had ridden out with King Harys. There were no bustling merchants, no fishermen, no smallfolk crowding the market stalls.
"Welcome to King's Landing!" He announced, his cheerful tone odd given the somber backdrop of the capital. "And we've arrived not a moment too soon. Your brother is starting to smell something terrible."
The severed head of Benjen Tyrell sat rotting in a sack in his killer's lap. Flies buzzed about it noisily, flitting in and out of rotting orifices, but the eldest Tyrell was lost to his surroundings and took no notice it seemed.
The Tyrell siblings shared a mount after Troy became too weak to walk any further. The heir to Highgarden and his little sister Mellara were both sober and sullen atop the horse, and made no protest when pulled from the saddle upon their arrival at the Red Keep.
"Be sure to find a good spike for that," Thaddius told a soldier in the crimson armor of his father's house, nodding at the decomposing head. The Lannister knight didn't give the pair a second glance as they were dragged away, bound for some cell on the second level of the dungeons. He was eager to see his father again, and his brother, too, if Damon were still loitering in the capital.
An entire castle filled with wine and comforts worthy of a king, why would he be in any rush to leave?
Thaddius had done a lot of thinking on the journey to King's Landing. He thought about the vows he swore to Harys Baratheon, he thought about a son's duty to his father, he thought about what it meant to be a Lannister and imagined what how it would feel to wear red and gold instead of white.
He also thought about Jojen Stark and that night they had spent in Lord Harroway's town, despite his best efforts to forget it. A mistake, he told himself.
In his boot he had tucked the black handkerchief of Aeslyn Targaryen, with its three headed dragon embroidered in red. The memory of their encounter at the tourney made his heart race, and the token itself served as a reminder that what occurred in the tavern was an accident not likely to happen again.
I must be rid of this damned white cloak. After that, I can wed Aeslyn and forget all about that wolf pup. Thaddius was certain it could be done. With Aerion Blackfyre on the throne and his father as Hand of the King, Loren Lannister had the power to release him from his vows. The proper bit of gold into the High Septon's hands and Thaddius would be a free man.
He wasn't quite sure how he would get the Targaryen to marry him, or his father to allow him to forsake the Kingsguard, but he knew that he could count on his older brother's help. Damon always knew how to talk to girls, and despite the rocky relationship he had with their father he could still be very convincing.
Thaddius made his way through the castle unmolested. His armor and his cloak announced his station and men and women scurried out of his way as he walked past, tall and golden haired, headed for the Tower of the Hand.
He tried to plan out what he would say to his father as he strode along the grounds of the Red Keep. I will tell him the truth, he thought. Loren always seemed to know when he was lying, only honesty would work. I will tell him about the Targaryen, and about the children she could bear me. They say he loved my mother fiercely, surely he will understand.
He was admitted to Lord Loren Lannister's solar without delay and found his father hunched over his desk, quill in hand, an orderly stack of papers to his left and a inkwell to his right. The solar was sparse, unlike how Thaddius remembered it from his last visit, when the tower and its apartments belonged to Alester Targaryen.
The wine cabinet had been removed, the tapestries of dragons taken down, the lavish decorations of gold and silver and onyx removed. Now the room looked simple, a few Myrish carpets sprawled across cold stone floors, a tidy desk was centered and three carved oak chairs surrounded it. A single painting hung on the wall, a mountainous landscape that for all its majesty still looked cold.
Loren Lannister himself was as intimidating as ever, even seated. His hair, once as yellow as Thaddius', was gray and thinning, only streaks of gold remaining. His eyes though, those had never changed. They were as green as summer's grass and as hard as Valyrian steel and the youngest Lannister son knew his father's gaze could cut just as sharply.
"Thaddius." Loren set the quill down when his son entered, turning his attention towards the knight. His face was as unreadable to Thaddius as ancient Ghiscari, a placid expression in place that neither revealed joy in seeing him nor provided any glimpse into the Warden's thoughts of his arrival.
"Father." Thaddius glanced at one of the empty chairs before the desk but did not sit. He gave a stiff bow. "I've brought two Tyrell children as hostages for King Aerion, Troy the heir to Highgarden and Mellara, the youngest daughter."
"Aerion is dead." His father's expression did not change. "Your brother is King."
Thaddius couldn't hide his bewilderment. He frowned in confusion but before he could open his mouth, Loren stood. The sound of the chair's wooden legs scraping against the floor was the only one in the room but for the quiet crackling of a fire burning low in the hearth beneath the painting.
"You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard now."
Thaddius felt his stomach clench into a tight knot. No, no, no, that is not how this conversation is supposed to be going.
His father came to his side and placed a hand on Thaddius' shoulder. Loren did not reach his son's height, and was as slender in his later years as he had been in youth, but the hand felt heavier than mail.
"You honor me, father." Thaddius swallowed, and forced a smile. Tell him, tell him now!
"I had thought, however-"
"You will need a new sword," Loren interrupted, glancing down at the one Thaddius had sheathed at his hip. "To accompany your new station." He removed his hand, allowing Thaddius to breathe once more, and turned his back to him as he crossed the room quietly. "I have one in mind, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait. It is not here. I'll retrieve it myself, once the time is right."
He moved to the fire and stared into the glowing coals. Thaddius was grateful for the lack of eye contact. Perhaps it would make it easier to say what he wanted to, what he needed to. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to begin.
"Father, I wanted to talk to you," he started hesitantly, gaze turned towards the floor. The pattern in the Myrish carpet was far easier to look at than even the back of his father's head. It was a deep shade of burgundy with swirls of rusty yellow climbing and clambering up its length. Blood and gold.
"The Kingsguard is a great… a great honor." Thaddius swallowed again. "But what will people say? I can't… I was sworn to Harys Baratheon."
"What people say is irrelevant," Loren stated bluntly, turning back to face him. "You are a Lannister, Thaddius, and you are my son. No one has the right to judge you… No one."
"I just thought that maybe-"
"You have attained the very highest rank of knighthood," Loren cut him off again. "My son, the most skilled swordsman alive in this realm. My son, leader of the finest knights in all of Westeros. My son, the Lord Commander."
Thaddius stood motionless.
"You are the pride of his house, Thaddius."
Perhaps it was just the strange light that the fire in the hearth cast, but it almost seemed as though Loren Lannister was wearing the faintest of smiles upon his hard and rigid face.
"You are my pride."
- NATHANIEL -
The desk was covered in parchment - letters, declarations, tallies, and requests.
It was unlike Lord Nathaniel to keep so cluttered a space while he worked. Indeed, he was known for his discipline even before he served as the keeper of laws and justice for the Vale under his brother's rule. But since James' death, the Eyrie saw a courier nearly every single day, making the treacherous trip up the narrow goat trail, laden with papers.
The candle burned low at his elbow, and a letter written in the pained scrawl of a child sat beneath the prickett.
Mya, Nathaniel knew, glancing at it. The letter called to him, just like Mya's mother had so long ago, but he pushed the thought of it from his head and concentrated on the parchment in his hands. He'd read every single word at least a dozen times, but he read them another just in case.
"Well?" a soft voice behind him asked.
Unable to hold her tongue any longer, Elyssa Arryn stood behind her older brother and tucked a strand of her wavy brown tresses behind her ear. She stared at his back expectantly.
"Master of Laws," Nathaniel answered, setting the parchment down and turning to face his sister of ten and six.
Her doe eyes widened. "A seat on the small council? Nate, that's incredible!"
Nathaniel didn't appear as enthused. His usual frown deepened.
"They don't just want to give me a seat," he reminded her. "They want the Vale's armies. James' armies."
"Your armies, Nate."
He shook his head. "No, we're both wrong. Theon's armies. I serve as regent for our nephew, not one of of those soldiers belongs to me."
Elyssa sighed and moved to the desk, pushing aside some of the papers so that she could hoist herself onto the table and take a seat. She swung her legs as she spoke.
"All the more reason for you to accept this proposition," she said. Elyssa stared dreamily off into space. "Oh, to be able to go south to the capital… See all the people down there, the jugglers, the bards, the fools. Please, Nathaniel, you have to let me come with you! I want to meet all the ladies of court, with their beautiful gowns and their exotic hair styles…"
She began to twist her long brown hair into a braid absentmindedly as she spoke.
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "Ellie, this isn't some child's fantasy, and at ten and six you are far too old for those besides. There is a war going on. The Baratheons and the Tyrells are amassing their strength at Highgarden. Sooner or later, they're going to march, and that Red Keep you are dreaming of could end up earning its name for something other than the color of its stone. If I join the Lannisters and they lose…"
"What have the Tyrells and Baratheons offered you?" she asked curiously.
Nathaniel scoffed and tossed the letter in his hand onto the table. "Harys couldn't find the Vale on a map," he muttered. "I've heard nothing from either Lord Baelor or the Baratheon. Only this offer from the Lions."
He glanced again at the parchment that sat beneath the candle. Wax was beginning to drip onto the letter and he quickly pulled it out from beneath the prickett and tucked it safely into a drawer.
Later, he promised himself.
"I haven't seen Damon in almost a decade now. I have no idea what kind of king he would make."
Elyssa picked up one of the sheets of parchment from the desk and began to fold it carefully as she spoke. "So the Baratheons and the Tyrells offer you nothing, and the Lannisters offer you a small council seat. Theon's soldiers will have to march regardless," she said, "either for their rightful king or for the usurper. Many of them will die, of course."
She turned the paper over in her hands and made deliberate creases here and there as Nathaniel watched her warily.
"If they march for Harys Baratheon and he wins, you will surely have his undying gratitude. Then you will return home and rule from the Eyrie until Theon comes of age, after which you will go back to being the keeper of laws and justice for the Vale. If they march for Damon Lannister and he wins, you will become one of the most powerful men in all of Westeros, keeping justice and law for seven kingdoms, for as long as you live."
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow.
Elyssa set the parchment down on the desk before her older brother and lifted her brown eyes to his. She had folded it into a lion.
- AESLYN -
Aeslyn had one handmaiden back at Sharp Point, a quiet girl her father paid only with food and lodging. Now she arrived at the Red Keep from Casterly Rock with ten. They followed her about dutifully, ready to fulfill any want or need at the moment it arose, eager to impress the Queen of Westeros.
Unfortunately for the girls, Aeslyn's most pressing want was not one they were able to help with.
"Where is the King?" she asked as one of the youngest maidens ran a brush through her long blonde hair.
"I do not know, Your Grace," the girl replied softly. Another handmaiden hurried over holding up a gown for the Queen's approval.
Aeslyn reached out a hand and touched the soft fabric reverently. She had never seen clothing as fine as what she received since arriving at the capital. The dress that the handmaiden held before her now was as blue as a summer sky, with golden flowers embroidered in the bodice and a skirt made from silk so soft that touching it felt like dipping one's fingers into milk.
"This one," she said, and the handmaiden gave a formal nod in reply.
Aeslyn looked about her new lodging in admiration. The royal apartments were vast, with separate chambers for sleeping, bathing, dressing, and receiving visitors. The privy was larger than her bedroom back at Sharp Point, which she had shared with her sister Danae, though the younger Targaryen spent more time in the library than she ever did before her vanity.
"What a foolish girl you are," Aeslyn once told her, when she found her little sister curled up beneath the watchtower with twigs in her hair and dirt on her tattered gown, thumbing through the pages of a book with grubby fingers. "Men don't marry women for their wits, they marry them for their beauty, and no one wants a filthy little thing like you who would sooner climb trees and muck the stables than host ladies for tea."
She remembered the scowl Danae gave her in reply as if it were yesterday. Look who is smiling now, sister. Aeslyn sat in her new bedchambers in Maegor's Holdfast on a richly carved bench of oak covered in plush cushions. Myrish rugs decorated the floors, fires burned in the twin hearths, and behind her was a great four poster canopied bed that she had yet to share with the man she married.
"I have not seen the King," the servant said, twisting and braiding Aeslyn's hair into an elaborate updo. "I believe he is with his father, Your Grace."
Aeslyn sighed.
"He's always with his father. Do the two of them not need sleep?"
"I do not know, Your Grace."
The Queen frowned unhappily. She stood so that her servants could dress her and flinched as they yanked the lacing of the gown tightly.
"I wish to find him," she said firmly. She was about to reach down to smooth her skirts but already two handmaidens were doing so, adjusting and smoothing out any wrinkles, pulling the fabric taut.
I can get used to this, Aeslyn thought, but truthfully she already had.
The Queen left the apartments with her small army of servants in tow, and made her way down the corridors of the castle that her ancestors had built. She wasn't sure where she could expect to find her King and husband, but the Tower of the Hand seemed like a good place to start looking.
The guards seemed hesitant to admit her, but the small golden circlet she wore on her forehead made them yield. They swung open the door for her and one of the soldiers in a red cloak escorted her up the winding staircase to the Hand's solar. She heard the sound of low voices but it stopped immediately when she entered the chambers and two familiar faces looked up at her expectantly.
It was the first time she had seen her husband since their wedding night. Aeslyn had woken the following morning to an empty bed and then she learned that he was headed to King's Landing, though no one could tell her why. It wasn't until a week later that she learned of the sack and her new station, and was carted off to the capital to join him as his Queen, escorted by his father.
And Danae has likely slipped through my fingers by now...
The two of them were before her now, Damon seated at the desk and Loren behind him, one hand resting on the back of his son's chair. He had been looking over his shoulder and speaking to him as he wrote, but the conversation and Damon's quill both stopped when they noticed the intruder.
"Your Grace, Lord Hand," Aeslyn curtsied and smiled, but the two men simply stared back at her, Loren with his cold and appraising gaze and Damon with confusion. It was the first time she had seen him this closely since arriving at the castle, and already he appeared so different from the man she first met in Casterly Rock. He looked tired and unhappy, but the biggest change of all was the crown upon his head, gold and inlaid with glittering rubies, blood red.
"Lady Aeslyn," he said after a brief pause. "Is there something you need?"
His tone wasn't unkind, but nor was it welcoming and she thought she detected a trace of annoyance in his voice.
"I wished to see you, my lord," she explained, taking a few small steps forward and sweetening her smile. "I've hardly caught more than a glimpse of you since our wedding, and I've missed you. I heard you were injured?"
"I've been very busy…" he said slowly, raising an eyebrow slightly as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Too busy for your wife?" she replied, batting her eyelashes.
Damon stole a glance over his shoulder at his father, but Loren did not avert his stony gaze from the Queen.
"It would seem that way, yes," he replied when he turned back to face her. "Is there something important, or can we speak later?"
"That depends, Your Grace," Aeslyn tilted her head to the side and blinked slowly. "When exactly is later?"
Her husband's face fell into a frown and his next words came out with clear impatience. "Later is any time that isn't now."
She was taken aback by his tone for a moment, but pressed onward. "I had spoken to you about an important matter, before you left. Do you remember, my lord?" Judging by the look of confusion on Damon's face, he did not remember.
"Your Grace." Lord Loren's voice was as flat as the bay of Sharp Point. "Is this a matter that can be set aside for another time?" It was barely phrased as a question, but Aeslyn knew what answer was expected of her.
As gracefully as she could, Aeslyn curtsied and kept her smile in place. "Oh course, Lord Loren. We will speak later then, Your Grace."
She made her dignified exit and walked back down the spiral stone staircase inwardly enraged at being snubbed by the man she had married and his overbearing father.
What is the point in being married to someone who refuses to make time for you? she thought, annoyed.
She felt her stomach growling and realized she had not yet eaten that morning. The Queen decided to return to her apartments for a late breakfast, and left the Tower of the Hand to walk across the middle bailey.
Winter hung over the realm, but the climate in King's Landing was warmer than elsewhere, and the lawn was green though the air was chilly.
She passed the Sept just as someone was departing. She did not recognize the man, though that was unsurprising given that there were few people milling about the Red Keep who were familiar to her. His hair was black and his eyes were even blacker, set in a tanned face. He had a muscular build and a rugged disposition, not unlike the sellswords and hedge knight who were among the more interesting folk that came to buy fish from her father when she was a girl.
Aeslyn smiled warmly as she approached and the man paused. He seemed taken aback by her presence and his eyes widened before he remembered his courtesies and bowed deeply.
"Your Grace," he said at last, "My apologies for staring, I did not expect to see the Queen, and even though I have heard stories of your beauty, to see it in person is truly something else entirely."
She held out a delicate hand for him to kiss and beamed at the compliment. Though it was one she had heard a thousand times before, it wasn't one she had heard recently. Her husband had seemed pleased enough with her on their wedding night, but he hadn't put forth any effort to seek out her company since then, even now that they were both in the same city and indeed the same castle.
Aeslyn lacked the fierce independence of her sister that their father had always been so proud of.
He was proud of everything that wretched girl did, Aeslyn recalled with bitterness. Proud of every scraped knee and bruise she earned spending all her time riding instead of practicing her embroidery. And what did he show towards me? Disinterest and disdain, though it was Danae who killed his sister-wife.
"Robert Manderly," the stranger introduced himself, "Commander of the Golden Company."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Commander Robert," Aeslyn replied. She looked the man up and down curiously.
So I was right about the sellsword bit, she thought with satisfaction.
"Will you walk with me, Commander?" she asked, extending an arm for him to take.
He looked shocked at the request, and stood open mouthed for a moment before he found his voice.
"With… with you, Your Grace? It… It would be an honor I am not worthy of."
Aeslyn smiled warmly. "Then do not think of it as an honor, Commander. Consider it a command."
He grinned at that and linked his arm with hers.
"I couldn't refuse the command of my Queen, Your Grace."
The two began to stroll along the path in the courtyard, the army of handmaidens trailing along at a respectful distance.
"How have you been finding the capital, Your Grace?" Robert asked conversationally. He had never been this close to such a beautiful woman before. He actually felt nervous at their arms' touching, for the first time since his wife passed away nearly a decade ago. Aeslyn seemed to notice, and was pleased by it.
He understands my worth better than my own husband.
"To be truthful, Commander, it has not been completely to my liking. I've found that no matter how elegant a chamber or how luxurious its bed, nights are still lonely without the company of a man."
Her face twisted into a frown. "I have seen more of the cook than I have of my husband," she continued bitterly. "Why is it that a Queen can't be in the company of her King? That a woman can't spend time with her husband?"
"The King is a busy man," Robert offered with a shrug. "Many people await his attention."
"A Queen should never have to wait," Aeslyn snapped, shooting him a glare.
Manderly was taken aback, but tried to maintain his composure.
"I apologize, Your Grace, I did not mean-"
"No, don't apologize," Aeslyn sighed, the dark look on her face fading as quickly as it had appeared. "You are right, of course. Damon is busy. Busy doing whatever his father tells him to. As it so happens, I am busy, as well. Queens have matters to deal with, too."
She looked the man up and down, dragging her gaze across him slowly and deliberately.
"In fact, perhaps you might be able to help with one of these matters."
"Me?" Manderly asked, dumbfounded. "What sort of matter could a man like me possibly help a Queen with, Your Grace?"
Aeslyn brought the corners of her perfect mouth into a coy smile.
"The matter of my lonely bed."
He stopped at that, halting their walk and the herd of handmaidens behind them. Aeslyn unlinked her arm from his and tilted her head to the side, blinking her beautiful violet eyes enticingly. She pulled her pale shoulders back, exaggerating the cleavage that her tightly laced gown created, and took a step closer to him.
Manderly stood slackjawed.
"Your Grace, I… I couldn't possibly…"
"Robert," Aeslyn said, taking his hand in hers and running her thumb across his palm. "For a commander, you seem to have difficulty understanding orders."
There was a brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but it vanished at her gentle touch, and a wide smile spread across his face.
"I couldn't refuse the command of my Queen, Your Grace."
- DANAE -
Their final destination with Doniphos was a trade port about halfway along the Demon Road from Volantis to Mantarys. The captain was planning to meet a trade envoy from Mantarys to establish a new deal of commerce between the cities. Since Mantarys had no connection to the sea, Doniphos felt he could offer them a deal in slave trade they could not refuse.
Danae stood aboard the ship with James and Doniphos at her side as she watched the dark waves crash against the hull.
"Mantarys is a city of monsters, my lady," Doniphos offered. "You would do well to head immediately south along the road. Put as much distance as possible between your small group and the city. It has a sinister reputation for torture, horror, and all manner of perversions."
"Then why do you look to trade with them?"
"I am an opportunist, much like yourself." Doniphos smiled a wide, toothy grin as he looked down at Danae. She noticed several of his teeth were golden. "Why do you travel to the ruins of Oros with two waterdancers, an old maester, and a handful of guards? I assume from your silver hair and purple eyes that you're dragonseed. Velaryon? Blackfyre? Dare I even say one of the last Targaryens?"
He chuckled and peered down at her closely. "Are you looking to find a dragon in Oros? You will find nothing but demons in the ash and smoke. Demons waiting to rip you apart and eat your burned bodies."
Danae looked silently out over the water. Her thoughts turned to Persion below deck with Summer. This entire journey was for him. Would the magic of Valyria be strong enough to change his contented, lazy nature? Would he grow large enough to support her weight? Would they make it even one night along the road before they were attacked, and would he do anything in defense other than snore and claw at imaginary enemies in his sleep?
"As I said, I am an opportunist," the captain continued without waiting for her reply. "I take your company aboard my ship in exchange for the volumes of gold your maester offered, and I ask few questions. I will trade with the monsters of Mantarys in exchange for the volumes of gold they offer, and once again I will ask few questions. As long as my pockets are filled with precious metals, it matters little to me what eccentricities or perversions occupy the minds of my business partners."
They reached the port and found the envoy awaiting them. The party was comprised of the strangest men Danae had ever seen, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her, wishing she could hide. The men had hair as black as night that dripped with oil and was styled in outlandish braids, or forked in the shape of grasping talons. Their skin was dark and leathery, and their eyes varied from black, to golden yellow, to a shade of brown that at certain angles looked as red as blood.
They brought with them a vast caravan of goods to tempt the Volantene captain. A grotesquerie of slaves rode behind the traders and Danae stood curiously on her toes to examine the group. She saw dwarves of various ethnicities, a man with twisted and deformed, hairy legs wearing shoes that resembled a goat's hooves.
Surely those are shoes…
Her jaw dropped when she spied a two-headed woman riding among the crowd, and she heard Summer chuckle at Danae's surprise.
"Mantarys is home to the grotesque, the deformed, and the monsters," the sultry sellsword explained. "They may still be slaves, but they serve to entertain the masters of Mantarys, and are paraded around to other cities to hold the reputation to the world that their city is one of horror."
Grand Maester Orin departed from the ship with Doniphos to meet the envoy. Words were exchanged in a garbled mixture of Ghiscari and Valyrian that Danae couldn't begin to understand. One of the slaves brought forth several horses and Danae saw that maester reach into his pockets and exchanged gold with the envoy. He turned and nodded to Danae.
She made her way on the shore wedged tightly between Summer and James, both waterdancers' hands clasped onto the hilts of their swords. The maester's guards walked closely behind, carrying the trunk between them. Danae felt the strange eyes of the envoy fall upon them all and she heard the ugly biting tongue of their garbled language as they laughed and jeered. She pulled the hood down even further.
The horses were already saddled with several canteens of water and bags of food strapped onto their sides and the guards fastened the trunk between two of the mounts. Danae shifted quickly to stand in front of the trunk as she spied a snort of black smoke curling from one of the small holes James had carved into the side. Luckily, the envoy had turned their eyes back to Doniphos and Danae pulled herself onto a chestnut rounsey and awaited the Grand Maester's return to them.
"I return to the port in two month's time," Doniphos called to Danae in the Common Tongue. "If you're waiting for me, my silver lady, I will take you back to the free cities. If you're not, then may whatever gods you worship have mercy on you."
With that exchange, the maester mounted his horse and they turned south to follow the Demon Road.
Within only a matter of hours, Danae heard a clawing against the trunk behind her and she turned in the saddle to see the horses begin to panic at the sound. A bright golden flame shot out from the holes in the trunk and both horses reared in fear, throwing James and Summer to the hard, packed earth. The trunk fell between them as it soon erupted in another blast of golden flame. Danae sat atop her horse in shock as she watched Persion pull himself from the charred luggage and spread his wings.
Does he already sense the magic of Valyria? We're miles and miles away from the ruins.
He took to the air, soaring above the group, then dove down once just inches above Danae's head, blowing her hair about in the wind stirred by his beating wings. Before she could push her tousled blonde tresses from her face, he took to the skies high above them and glided amongst the clouds.
The Demon Road was stone, flat and seamless, wide enough for three carriages to ride abreast, and absolutely straight. Only the Valyrians knew what sort of magic they used to build it. The leaves of the trees nearby were sparse and mostly brown, and every now and then the breeze would blow and a foul smell reached Danae's nose.
They rode for two weeks along the road and as they neared the shattered lands of Valyria, the landscape finally began to change. The dry scrub grass withered and faded into nothing and the earth became barren. Shiny black rock sprouted from the ground here and there as the patches of the sand around them melted to glass in places. It was silent but for the wind, which oft smelled like rotten eggs.
They had not seen water for miles, and they rationed the precious remains in their canteens. The dragon soared overhead, but never ventured down beside them, and occasionally a faint scream could be heard from high in the sky.
At night, Danae's dreams grew vivid and strange. She dreamed of crowds of tattooed slaves running through the streets of an enormous city. She followed the slaves, and they led her to a vast, open arena. In the middle of the arena were two elephants and a tiger, rabid and dangerous, and she watched unable to blink as they killed any man who dared approach them. A pile of dead, broken bodies surrounded the pit while the crazed animals feasted hungrily on human flesh.
She climbed up a tree that was taking root into a crumbling wall, and from there she watched as thousands of slaves encircled the arena. They rushed the animals at once and it was a shower of blood as the elephants and tiger fought back ferociously. Soon the slave numbers reached several thousand and they began to weaken the animals with their enormous surging force.
Men were ripped apart as the fighting continued, and the people took turns stabbing the creatures with their crudely made weapons. Their screams of revolt echoed throughout the arena and the streets of the city as more and more slaves rushed to join the chaos. Suddenly, a dragon's shadow engulfed them all.
She always awoke in a sweat. Her ears began to ring throughout the day from the cries of rebellion and death that visited her in her dreams at night. My mind is playing tricks on me.
Her body was exhausted from travel. The oppressive heat of the land had caused Danae to abandon her cloak entirely and rip the sleeves from her tunic. Summer wiped her face so often she had torn part of her clothing and wrapped it around her forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes. They had moved into ashlands the day before, and the grit in the air stung everyone's eyes.
Soon it was no longer silent at night. After the sun set, they heard intermittent calls, strange fierce cries that sounded like nothing Danae had read about in any of her countless books. There were growls too, rumbling noises that sounded more like rocks and earth moving than something that could come from the throat of a creature. Worse than any of these were the screams, high-pitched and full of so much pain no one could sleep after hearing them.
Danae was tossing and turning fitfully on a dirty and travel-worn bedroll. She rolled onto her back to search the dark skies for Persion, and her heart ached as she wondered where he had gone. Has he left me? Summer laid down beside her and the light from a crackling fire reflected off her beautiful Valyrian steel longsword, catching Danae's gaze once again.
Suddenly there was a piercing screech, and both girls sat upright in the hard earth. One of the maester's guards was choking, blood spilling from his fingers where they pressed against his throat. He dropped to his knees and braced himself against the ground as blood poured from the gash in his throat and stained the soil red. Summer vaulted to her feet, slender longsword in hand and Danae looked frantically around her to see shapes in the smoke from the campfire, unknowable things half-hidden in the ash.
Immediately James was beside her with his sword in hand. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and pushed her toward the campfire as he joined with Summer and the rest of the guard in forming a small circle around Danae and the flames. Danae looked over her shoulder to see their horses kicking in panic, their bridles tied tightly to the trunk of a withered shrub tree.
She turned back in time to see the Grand Maester pull a sword from the fallen guard and bend his aged knees into a fighting stance. The movements in the haze were swift, shadows flitting here and there. Summer darted forward and slashed at one of the dark shapes. Danae saw the flesh of the creature part freely beneath the Valyrian blade.
Thick black ooze spurted from its wound and splattered across Summer's shoulder and neck. The beast gave a shattering howl of agony and rage, and lunged at the waterdancer, and their group saw it clearly for the first time in the light of their camp fire.
Perhaps it had once been a man, or a dragon, but now it was something of both. It was a little bigger than a human, with scales covering parts of its body and flesh the rest. Danae had time to see that its eyes were molten gold, and then its face split to reveal a mouth full of mismatched and vicious-looking teeth as it released an ear-splitting, unearthly screech. A stunted tail flicked behind it, and claws dug into the ashy ground for balance as it swiped at Summer with a clawed hand.
The black blood spraying from its wounds smelled foul, and Danae saw smoke rising from Summer's shoulder as her flesh twisted and burned from where the creature's blood had splashed her.
"Don't touch the blood!" Summer yelled to the others, scrubbing at her skin with her sleeve while still trying to keep her back to the fire and her front to the creatures.
Danae's heart pounded rapidly in her chest a she crouched in the earth and wished for anything to use as a weapon. Her hands searched the packed soil until she came across a shiny black rock that she clutched in a clenched fist. She looked up to watch James and Grand Maester Orin lunge to fight one of the creatures together. The jerky movements of the strange beasts were too foreign for Danae to tell who had the upper hand.
She turned her attention back to see Summer and the guard named Jon kill one of the creatures as it screamed in pain and fury and fell to the ground. Summer began to search for others in the darkness, but Jon had taken too many injuries and he crumbled onto the soil as fire began to erupt from his wounds. Danae heard Summer cry out as she watched Jon die.
Danae felt a searing pain on her left leg and her body was yanked away from the fire. One of the creatures had grabbed her and was attempting to drag her away into the darkness. She gave a kick in its general direction, and the beast opened its mouth and screamed at her. She kicked again and hit it square on in the face. The heel of her right foot immediately felt as if it had been lit aflame.
Danae threw the black rock in her hand at the beast and it ducked just as the rock neared its head. The creature shook its head to regain composure and lunged after her once more, a hot pain scorching her leg and radiating up her body as it latched onto her ankle.
"Summer!"
Summer spun around from Jon's corpse to see Danae on the ground, a scaly claw wrapped around her ankle. As she began to run towards Danae a loud, high-pitched scream came from the sky and a blast of golden dragonfire scorched the air around them, blinding everyone with its sudden light.
Spots danced across Danae's vision as the dragon dove. He had grown in his absence, his wingspan now stretched out much farther than before and his head the size of a bull. He was magnificent, a creature of snapping jaws and flame.
The demon let go of Danae's ankle and shot to its feet. It grunted to the other creature fighting Grand Maester Orin and James, and they both backed away to look into the sky. Every set of eyes were fixed onto the dragon now.
The dragon flew towards Danae with talons spread and jaws snapping angrily. He placed himself between her and the creature. She looked in wonder as his mouth opened and a loud, piercing roar emerged. His quick gold and white body flew into the air and a large burst of golden fire spilled from his throat. The demon creature snapped back to attention as its left arm was set ablaze.
The fighting resumed as Persion circled in the skies above. A guard ran towards the demon and lunged. The creature dodged swiftly aside and turned to pounce on the man from behind. Its scaled, fiery claws enclosed around the guards neck and a stomach-churning snap reached Danae's ears as the creature lifted the guard's bloody, decapitated head high in the air.
The dragon dove from the skies and landed on the creature's face with his talons piercing into its molten gold irises. The demon's eyes burst like grapes and hot, liquid fire spilled down the creature's body. Persion made another circle in the night's sky and placed himself once more in front of the creature. This time his fire hit it square in the chest as the scales of the creature began to melt and run. A foul, rancid smell emerged as the creature seemed to burn from the inside out.
The dragon circled once more, spreading his golden white flame, and at last the creature fell to the ground as its entire body melted into a black molten pool of fire-blood.
Danae picked herself up and turned to Summer. Her body ached and burned from the creature's touch, yet seeing her dragon in action lit her spirit aflame with courage. He landed lightly next to her feet and nudged her with his large head. The two girls and the dragon turned towards the last remaining creature and saw it lunging wildly in the fight with Orin and James, the remaining guards lying dead around their camp. The only remaining guard, a northern man named Brandon laid dying and shrieking in the sand after taking a faceful of the demon's molten blood.
Danae watched as Summer came up behind Orin. Grand Maester he might be, but there was no denying the strength of his arm. One powerful swing had left one of the creature's inhuman hands twitching on the ground, black blood smoking where drops fell on the soil.
The beast reared back for a strike, and Summer gripped her blade tightly in her off hand. There was no time for anything but an anticipatory wince as she ducked beneath the Grand Maester's arm and thrust her blade through the creature's throat in a death blow. Black blood spilled forth onto her hand, and she wrenched it back with a hiss. She scrambled back to the camp to grab her skin of wine that lay beside her bedroll and upended it over her left hand, pouring the remnants on her shoulder. Summer stifled a scream and rose to look at the carnage around them.
"Lady Danae," Danae heard Summer say while she coughed up ash. "Grand Maester, Rivers, are you all right?"
Danae's ears rang with the hum of battle and her eyes were fixed on the dragon. The magnificent creature flapped his wings and roared as took into the skies and flew in a circle around the campfire. His eyes were a bright flame of battle lust, freedom, and a new wildness.
This is who I am. This is what we truly are, she thought to herself. Fire and Blood.
The words had been printed upon her family's name for centuries, but they had not taken root in her heart until tonight. Her heart was pounding and her body was in pain, but she had never felt so free and wild and powerful.
"Lady Danae?" Summer called. "Lady Danae are you alright? Can you hear me?"
Danae turned to face the three she had started this journey with. Tonight they had been made her army. A dragon's army. "I've never felt better. And you should call me Queen."
- JOJEN -
"A Lion on the Iron Throne," Jojen summarized for his brother.
Edmure lowered the letter onto the desk slowly. Winter's winds howled and swept over the curtain walls of Winterfell, blowing the snow off the parapets and gusting through the stone archways of the first keep.
A blanket of white lay over the castle's towers, the bell one, the maester's, the library, and the broken one. Winter had been mild enough for the southern kingdoms, but in the North it had been a snowy one.
The water from the hot springs that was piped through the walls and chambers heated the solar and Edmure Stark was comfortable in his furs and blackened leather tunic. Jojen could not say the same.
It is not the snow that makes this castle so cold, he thought, shivering despite the soft rabbit fur that lined his jerkin. It is Edmure.
"Where is Symeon?" his brother asked.
"In the library."
"He means to spend his whole damn life in there," Edmure grumbled. He stared down at the letter again and then drew his skinning knife and brought its blade down right in the center of it, pinning the parchment to the table.
"If Damon Lannister thinks the north will bow down before him, then he's as stupid as our youngest brother is blind."
"Symeon isn't completely blind, Edmure. He just… he has difficulty seeing things further than a few feet in front of him is all."
"Still more useful than Ysela, I suppose."
Jojen chewed his lip thoughtfully. I wonder what he says of me when he speaks to our siblings. But he knew that Edmure spoke to Symeon and Ysela seldom. Hells, he barely talks to me.
"We will not side with these Lannisters. What claim do they have to the Baratheon's seat? What right?"
"The right of conquest," Jojen said. "The same one that Robert Baratheon used to start his line over two hundred years ago."
Edmure narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. "What's wrong with you, Jojen? You speak as if you support their cause."
He knows.
Jojen tried to keep his brother's gaze, but his stomach tightened in a knot when the oldest Stark's dark eyes bore into his, searching him, stripping down his darkest thoughts until they lay naked in the light of day.
He knows about Thaddius and I.
No, it was impossible. No one knew about that. It was weeks ago, and Jojen hadn't spoken to the Lannister since. Thaddius had gone back to the capital to protect his king and Jojen had returned to the North with his brother.
Does he think of me? Jojen wondered. He thought of Thaddius more often than he would care to admit. Jojen had sampled plenty of women before, but he had never lied with a man until that night, and the taste had left him with a strange hunger that could only be satiated by a certain golden haired young knight.
"Jojen."
His brother's voice shook him from his thoughts.
"No, I do not support their cause."
Edmure regarded him with suspicion. "The Lannisters are a damnably sly and deceitful house. I will not side with them, and you will see me in a septon's robes before you see me kneel before that conceited and prideful bastard Damon."
"You mean to march for Harys, then?"
Lord Stark slammed his fist onto the table. "Harys!?" he repeated, his voice booming in the stillness of the solar. "What has Harys done for the north? He picked a ward for his Hand, and one from his enemy's house. Tell me how he has honored and rewarded House Stark, his most loyal allies? Idiot of a brother! I will not march for that man!"
Edmure pushed his chair back and rose, prying the skinning knife from the desk and shoving it angrily back into its sheath at his hip.
"I've had enough of your fool's counsel. I will meet with my lords, now. They've been waiting long enough."
He brushed past Jojen on his way out and the younger Stark followed on his heels. They descended the dimly lit stairwell with its slate gray stones and glowing torches in their sconces in silence.
The Great Hall was as filled as Jojen had ever seen it. Lords from all over the North had come to Winterfell to discuss the war, and even a few ladies as well. Jojen recognized the muscled Dacey Mormont seated beside her brother Jaxon, the Lord of Bear Island. The Karstarks were present, Bradd and Matthos, the Glovers, the Flints, and the Liddles, as well as a thin and aging man with the green and black sigil of house Reed. Lord Forrest Umber was in attendance, a giant of a man taking up a place at the long table where three could have sat.
Their chatter filled the room, along with clinking of tableware, the sloshing of ale, and the howling of the wind against the ancient northern fortress. Some of the noise died down once Edmure entered, but the wind did not. It wailed against the walls of Winterfell and rattled the panes of the windows of the keep, filling Jojen with a sense of dread and foreboding.
"I'll hear your advice," Edmure announced, taking his place at the head of the long row of trestle tables that had been dragged to the center of the hall. "But I don't have to listen to a damned word of it, if I don't see fit to."
The muttering and whispering ceased and some glances were exchanged before the first lord spoke.
"My Lords, we pledged an oath to King Harys. What would the word of Starks and the North mean if we do not plan to keep it?" Bradd Stark said, gazing down the long table at the men present.
"True," he continued, "the Baratheons were usurpers once, just like the Lannisters now. But never forget that the War of the Usurper started with good cause. We cannot pledge fealty to a false king, whom we know to be a thief for nothing more than greed. The North remembers."
A second voice rode over the chatter that had started up again, belong to a man with a pine cone pin of painted silver on his breast. "The Baratheon's have shown us little love and less respect, it is true, but what of our ancient alliance? What of the friendship of our ancestors?"
"You would send your sons to die for the friendship of men centuries dead? You speak of madness." Jojen was almost as surprised to hear his voice as the other lords seemed to be. He felt a rush of anxiety overcome him as all eyes in the room turned towards him. Why am I nervous? I'm never nervous. He swallowed. Because I have something to hide.
"The Lannisters alone have twice our numbers, and ten times our wealth." His voice came out strongly though his heart was thumping in his chest. "We cannot hope to defeat them, not without allies, and the Stag stands alone."
"You forget House Tyrell, my lord."
Jojen shook his head. "The Lions hold Lord Baelor's children hostage, how long do you think the Rose will continue to march for a losing cause when their lineage is on the line?"
Jojen saw Edmure's hands clench into fists, but he forced himself to continue. "I say we march to King's Landing. I say we march to the capital. I say we go to the Red Keep and swear kingdom to the Iron Throne anew, and join the Vale and the Hightowers in putting an end to the line of Harys Baratheon, the King of Feasts, the King who Scorned the North!"
The room erupted into angry muttering.
"Quiet!" bellowed Edmure. "I will hear what Lord Glover has to say."
Men shifted on the hard wooden benches and turned their attention towards a heavy set man clad in fur, seated towards the center of the room. His spotted head was nearly bald, just thin wisps of white fuzz remaining.
"I sat in this hall when your father held Winterfell," Lord Glover said, his low hanging jowls nearly covering the mailed fist ornament that clasped his cloth of crimson cape about his shoulders. "Less than half the men here were present when Lord Torrhen called his vassals at the start of the Greyjoy Rebellion, twenty five years ago. I look around these tables and see sons. Sons of the those vassals."
"Let the Lannisters handle it, your cowardly fathers all said. Let the Lions crush those riotous barbarians, and so we did. We sat holed up in our castles while King Orys and Lord Tyrius fought and won the war and then the West called us craven for it. Small wonder that Harys hasn't seen fit to name a northman to his small council.
"Well, Lord Edmure is not his father. Tell me, are you men your fathers? Do you quake at the sight of a Lion's banner? Do you quiver at the thought of battle against those who mocked us?" He stood and pointed a sausage sized finger down the long table to the man who sat at its head. "Lord Stark does not."
"The younger wolf has the right of it." Lord Wull was shaking his head. "This is madness. We are too few to defeat the Lannisters, our only choice is to join them. I will not lead my men to their deaths for the pride of an old man and the arrogance of a Stark. I'd sooner follow Jojen. He has twice the sight of his older brother, perhaps the old gods saw fit to give him Symeon's eyes as well." He looked to Lord Glover. "Edmure is not his father, you speak it truly. He is more a Bolton than a Stark."
Lord Wull pushed himself to his feet. "I will follow Jojen!"
Edmure leapt to his feet as well, him and half a hundred men, bellowing out their opposition. Fingers were pointed and curses were hurled across the table as the war council in the Great Hall degenerated into chaotic argument. It took the great booming voice of Forrest Umber to silence the unruly crowd.
"ENOUGH!" he trumpeted and the roar died down. "There is a quick enough way to solve this! We have two brothers, two courses of action. Jojen would see us lay to rest past grievances and march with new allies. Lord Edmure will honor the past and refuse to fight for old enemies. Why should any of us decide which course to follow? Why not the old gods? Why not let them decide? Why not a battle before the gods?"
Jojen felt as if his heart stopped in his chest. His eyes met his brother's across the room and Edmure's face broke into a sinister grin.
The younger Stark had no time to voice his objection before the hall filled with noise once again.
The audience shouted in approval.
The lords and ladies spilled out of the wide doors of oak and iron hall and into the cold of the castle yard.
"This is folly!" Jaxon Mormont protested. "You are brothers! Kinslaying, is what this is!"
Edmure was already at the stable and Jojen made it outside soon after, half walking, half being shoved by lords behind him who continued to shout their support of him.
He felt a heavy gloved hand clap him on the shoulder and heard the familiar voice of Lord Wull in his ear. "Your brother is mad with bloodlust," he was saying lowly. "You have to do this, my boy. For Winterfell. For the North."
For Winterfell. For the North.
Jojen swallowed and then grabbed his horse by the saddle and pulled himself atop the mount. Edmure was already waiting. One black gloved hand gripped the reins and the other clutched his spear.
"I will kill you, brother." He nodded as he said it. "Not in the sight of men, but in the sight of the gods." He spurred his horse and took off at for the Godswood at a gallop, with Jojen riding hard and fast behind him. For a brief moment it was almost as if they were children again, two boys racing towards their favorite playing grounds.
Two brothers.
The horses' hooves plowed through the inches of snow on the ground and stomped the cold packed earth. Jojen's blood felt as cold as ice and the wind whipped his tangled auburn hair about his face as he rode. The sharp trilling of snow shrikes pierced his ears above the thumping of hooves and he shivered in his furs.
He lost sight of his brother when Edmure made a sharp turn and vanished between tall pine trees whose skinny trunks looked as black as a crow's feather against the whiteness of the snow that sat in drifts atop their roots. Edmure had always been the better rider. Was he the better warrior, too?
We will soon find out.
The shrieking of his horse surprised Jojen. He'd hardly had time to react before the beast reared and threw him from the saddle, a spear driven through its chest.
Jojen found himself on his back in the freezing snow, staring up at the canopy of stars above him. He rolled quickly onto his side and clambered to his feet, drawing his sword.
Edmure was on foot. Where did his mount go? His spear was dark and wet with blood. It ran down the wooden shaft in thick oozing streams onto his leather gloves.
"Get up!" he ordered his brother. "Fight me, Jojen!"
Jojen struggled to his feet but Edmure was upon him at once, thrusting with his spear for his brother's side, his leg, his throat. Jojen parried the attacks away sloppily at first, still dazed from his fall, but soon his body slipped into the stance it had learned from the Master of Arms, the one who had taught them both.
Edmure was stronger, Edmure was faster, Edmure was better. I am going to die, Jojen thought each time the spear point crashed against his own blade. Metal smashing metal shattered the silence of the godswood and Jojen grunted as he fended off a jab at his leg.
When he used his blade to throw the spear point aside he spotted his opening and thrust his sword through his brother's thigh, sending a spray of blood onto the frozen snow.
"Do you yield?!" Jojen demanded, panting as Edmure fell to one knee.
Edmure laughed, throwing his spear to the ground. "Yield? To the likes of you? I'd sooner marry a Frey!" He drew his dagger from its sheath and lunged but Jojen swung his blade and brought the sword down in between Edmure's neck and shoulders.
The red looked almost pretty against the pale snow of the Godswood, a bloody crimson as deep and dark as the haunting eyes of the heart tree that bore into Jojen Stark from across the pond.
